


The Mysterious Widower's Nazi-Hunting Virgin Husband

by Cesare, motleystitches (furius)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Avengers characters - Freeform, Confused Erik, Crossover characters - Freeform, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Gothic, Harlequin, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, No Homophobia, Tropes, Virgin Erik, Virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesare/pseuds/Cesare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/furius/pseuds/motleystitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the mid-'50s, young Erik Lehnsherr uses his position as a traveling companion to track down former Nazis.</p><p>Searching for more leads and the money to pursue them, Erik meets wealthy widower Charles Xavier. He's soon swept into a marriage with an older man he barely knows, journeying to New York, where the mysteries of the Xavier estate, Greymalkin, and memories of Charles' first wife Raven await him.</p><p>After Daphne du Maurier's <em>Rebecca</em>, with considerable Harlequin-esque liberties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Erik's canon background features in this story, and Charles is a WWII veteran, so please be advised that this story will contain WWII and Holocaust references. 
> 
> In this version of the Marvel movieverse, same-sex relationships & marriage are accepted on the same terms as heterosexual relationships.
> 
> WIP!
> 
> Dedicated to the 'XMFC Watches MST3K' crew, & special thanks to icecreamwolf.

Last night he dreamt of Greymalkin again. The iron gates and the locks yielded before him, revealing the long winding drive running through gardens that were growing wild, the grass long and green, the forest twinning itself in darkness on the overgrown lawn.

In the city where they live now, the shadows all are angled. The buildings rise up stark and tall. Their home is sharp and modern, the kitchen state-of-the-art, paneled in stainless steel. 

Erik tells himself he doesn't miss the wilds of the estate, or the genteel clutter of ancestral halls and chambers, the smells of oiled wood and sachets of herbs dried almost to dust. 

No matter how clean and well tended, some rooms felt stifled with lonely neglect, as if traces of old emotion had sifted between the floorboards where they could never be swept away.

It's best that they can never return. They carry too much grief of their own already to live among the dregs of other people's sorrows.

Their clean new flat is untouched by history; they're the first people ever to live within its walls. The fireplace bricks are so new the edges can cut paper, the ceilings are unblemished and smooth as fresh snow. Spiders scarcely seem to dare to dress it with cobwebs, and weeds retreat from the pavement outside their door. 

Nothing like Greymalkin, immured in the unhappy past that grew over its walls in a tangle as thick as any strangling ivy.

It was autumn when Erik first arrived at Charles' house. The growing things were tamer then, abiding, awaiting their chance to advance again in spring. The leaves on the trees were a deep russet only a shade lighter than the storied walls that stood firm despite their age, older than the country itself, shipped over stone by stone from an estate in England.

That much, Erik had learned from his then-employer, Joseph Danvers, who had a habit of scrutinizing the society columns and setting up "business" wherever happened to be the latest fashionable gathering places for the rich and famous. Danvers was from some obscure branch of European aristocracy and snobbish about it. The war had left him less wealthy than he thought he deserved, which he would verbalize, at length, to any who would listen. 

When Erik met him, in the mid '50s, there were still those sympathetic to Danvers' plight, having suffered or witnessed similar setbacks among their friends and family; their sympathy, Danvers exploited ruthlessly.

That was how he afforded Erik, who served as his secretary, giving an air of respectability to Danvers' business proposals at home or abroad. It was not a comfortable position, but Erik had suffered far worse hardship than to be asked to fetch and carry and cater, to smile politely and perhaps flirt a little with the old ladies and even a certain kind of gentlemen of whom Danvers made a specialty.

Noxious as Danvers was and as paltry the pay, accompanying him taught Erik, day by day, how to refine himself to move undetected through society, high and low.

For his part, at a minimal cost, Danvers gained the illusion of being a man of means, and the constant service of a young attendant with several languages at his fluent command. And if perhaps there was something in Erik's demeanor that Danvers sensed could further his business with the newly formed Israeli government and his ever-hopeful quest for connections with the Rothschilds, both of them were polite enough to ignore it.

After all, ten years after the war, the Jews, though pitied, were still a race apart. Not all restaurants and businesses and certainly not all society liked to be reminded of their indifference and even participation in the suffering and deaths of millions. They would rather let evil go free forever than admit that they'd once turned a blind eye to it.

And it was precisely that evil, those men, that Erik sought to meet through Danvers. If Danvers thought him merely another young man of no connections and little advantage seeking to advance himself despite the handicap of his heritage, it was to Erik's benefit. It could only help his cause if he could remain overlooked and underestimated.

The men Erik hunted had been hunters themselves. Their freedom-- granted by secret bargains with other nations, by twisted lawyerings, by skillful manipulation of people and assets-- was undeserved. 

And since the law could not exact justice, Erik would do so himself. For his people. For his mother. For himself.

The second summer since he joined Danvers, they were spending at the French Riviera, at hotels that housed fallen nobility from various empires, wealthy tourists from the Americas, and everyone else who had come to see and be seen. Wealth was the general theme.

And Erik, from associating with Danvers, was becoming very good at discerning real wealth from fake-- inherited wealth from that earned by industry-- and he was learning how eager men and women were to redeem it.

Gold, after all, could not be spent easily, especially when still stamped with the seal of the Third Reich. 

In this second year of his service, Erik was no longer merely training for the hunt. He knew Danvers well enough to subtly steer him, and use him as a passport to the places Erik needed to go. The trail to at least one of Schmidt's wartime associates led here. 

He didn't hope to find Schmidt himself-- Schmidt would surely be more clever-- but someone close to him had been here, selling off some of the same possessions Erik had been forced to use his power to mine from the burial pits. 

Perhaps those treasures had even fetched enough for a room in this very hotel. Erik was ready. Every corner he turned, every doorway he entered, he was primed and poised. Even as he labored over perfectly knotting his tie, even as he emptied his employer's ashtrays and aired his clothes and shuffled his cards. Erik was always ready.

-

They were lunching together when Danvers' gaze fell upon the man being seated three tables away. "Xavier," Danvers said quietly, with his usual calculating look. Soon, perhaps, Erik would be used as an excuse for an introduction. Sometimes he was asked to knock over a glass of wine, or to deliver a note.

The name meant nothing to Erik, who kept his resignation to himself and merely nodded and continued with his meal.

"I did business with his stepfather," Danvers was saying. "I met him before the war. How strange to think Xavier kept the money. I was absolutely certain Marko would get it eventually, but for the fire. I wonder what he's doing in Europe. The Xaviers have been American for generations, though the family's from the Conqueror."

"Marko. Kurt Marko?" Erik asked, surprised. He had just then, in his possession, a dossier obtained with great effort that mentioned the name in connection with Operation Paperclip, an initiative to bring former Nazi scientists to the USA. The nature of Marko's involvement was obscure, just one name among many.

"Dead, Erik. Six years gone. He had interests in Europe, though." He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Perhaps I should offer my condolences, no matter how belated. I knew the man, after all, and he was Xavier's stepfather."

Danvers gazed at Erik critically for a moment, and after instructing him to return to his room and change into his best suit and be quick about it, proceeded with his usual play.

Early in their acquaintance, Erik's reflexes had been noted and put to use. Now he skillfully maneuvered himself through the restaurant and knocked casually into the table, upsetting the wine so that Xavier, who had been abstractly staring out the window, bolted to his feet.

His eyes were the colour of the morning sky. For a moment, Erik almost forgot his errand, he was so stricken by their attention.

Xavier teetered, then, and seized the edge of the table. Erik was confused til he saw the cane hooked over the back of the man's chair. He reached to help, and only managed to soak his cuff and shirtfront in the spilled wine.

He remembered to mention Danvers' name and his fake interview only a moment before Danvers hailed them and acquainted himself with Dr. Charles Xavier.

Erik, embarrassed by his stained shirt, prepared to make his excuses and leave Danvers to sound out Xavier and his potentials. In fact, he was just about to go when Xavier invited them both to sit, his extraordinary eyes holding Erik once again.

"Have you been here before?" he asked. 

Erik nodded, uncertain. Xavier's accent was English, plummy and educated. With his heavy silver watch and his light linen suit, he should've been the same as any other mark that Danvers had found, but he had a face that looked as if it belonged to some medieval icon, strongly and exquisitely shaped, and so open and honest that Erik felt the strange stirring of guilt for imposing Danvers and his vulgarity on the man.

When Marko's name was repeatedly mentioned, however, Xavier frowned, and the conversation was swiftly and politely brought to an end. 

"I'll take care of any damages," he told Erik as they said farewell. "I know the horror of wine stains too well." And if he had seemed a little distant before, his smile now was so warm that Erik felt as if the world had shrunk smaller, as if only he and Xavier existed. 

Too soon, however, the feeling ended. Xavier was gone. Then Danvers whispered, not very discreetly within the confines of the elevator, since Erik was taller, "We may have hope yet, my boy. He likes you." No one reacted, but Erik saw the woman beside him smiling. He blushed, and hoped fiercely that no one knew the object of the reference.

-

The next morning, Erik woke to a knock on the door. A bellhop and a somber-looking gentleman awaited at the other side. He was here, he said, to measure Erik for a suit. Thinking that Danvers had some new scheme, Erik acquiesced.

"You have the right sort of build for the current look," the tailor said, lacing Erik into a waistcoat cincher. "Look at that, I don't even really need to pull you in with this, everything just fits. You must eat like a bird."

"They didn't feed us much in the camps," Erik answered flatly, and the tailor fell silent, finishing and leaving without another word.

It was Saturday. Erik had the mornings free, and if the servers and the maître d's could value him at a glance, Erik had found more success in conversation engaged at the tennis courts. He took his sketchbook as well, in case there was no one about, but it was a beautiful day and he had no shortage of partners, joining in one match after another.

There was a yacht in harbor, the Caspartina, he learned, where everyone was going, or wanted to go. Young women who were more interested in talking with him than actually playing informed him that some guests were even invited to stay overnight on the yacht, and the guest list included Hollywood names, minor nobility, and politicians, and "every single rich man on the continent. But no one like you, unless you're going." 

"I've no invitation," Erik said, which clearly disappointed them. They must have lead such cloistered lives; so many of them seemed attracted by the slightest hint of novelty that Erik represented. He had hoped, perhaps a little, that one of them might find it possible to offer him an invitation, but they were all too young and Erik doubted their mothers or fathers would be as easy to please.

They could help him even less when it came to his questions about Kurt Marko and Charles Xavier. Of Marko they knew nearly nothing, and of Xavier, just idle gossip.

"You wouldn't think it to look at him, but he's old, you know. Nearly forty," Erik's doubles partner said. "He was in the war. Now he studies mutants, I think. Or rather, mutation. Biology. Not mutants, of course, that would hardly be... well."

"Who cares what he _studied._ He's lovely, isn't he?" her friend giggled. "Even if he is old. I heard before he was married, he was a ladies' man, and a gentlemen's man too."

"His wife had a boating accident. Maybe he cheated on her and she drowned herself," said the third dramatically.

"Don't say that, it's mean," her friend scolded, but she was still laughing.

Erik excused himself before their chaperones arrived and played a very aggressive game against the bewildered scion of a shipping fortune, in order to exhaust his anger. 

By the time the sun was high, Erik was shellacked with sweat, his tennis whites sticking to him everywhere. He found himself touching his racquet to the ground with his every other step as he walked, as if it were a cane, like the one Xavier had, the night before...

And there he was on the path to the hotel, as if the thought conjured him: Charles Xavier, neat and pressed even in casual clothes, his sleeves rolled up over pale freckled forearms, cane in hand. Erik snatched up the racquet, so it wouldn't look as if he were making fun.

The man was relying on the cane less heavily than he'd done the night before, and he stood steadily enough when he stopped to greet Erik with a friendly, "Hello again."

It was a hopeless cliche, Erik knew, to compare anything to the peerless blue of the Mediterranean waters, but he still couldn't help but think that Xavier's eyes rivaled that singular shade.

"Mr. Xavier," Erik said.

"Dr. Xavier," the correction seemed to escape him automatically; Xavier shook his head at himself. "But no, of course, that's silly, you can call me Charles. Only we weren't properly introduced."

"Erik Lehnsherr," Erik made to offer his hand, but remembered, and waved at himself, explaining, "I'm not really in a fit state for a handshake, or..."

"Or," Xavier repeated with a little smile. "That's all right. I'm so glad we ran into each other again like this, I was hoping to speak to you."

"Oh?" Erik chided himself for the skepticism in his voice, and contrived to sound more eager. "I mean, of course. About...?"

This stretch of pavement was normally well-trafficked, and already they were being overtaken by the Osbornes (American tourists) and the Sevilles (minor European nobility of some stripe) and still more were approaching behind them. 

Xavier shifted to make space for the passing Sevilles, and stepped on the edge of the pavement. It seemed to nearly collapse his weak leg under him; Erik quickly seized his elbow, holding on while the other man regained his balance. 

"Thank you," Xavier breathed. He stood some six inches shorter than Erik, and there seemed to be no way to assist him without looming. Erik was uncomfortably aware just how unfit for company he really was; this close, he likely smelled offensive. Xavier's gaze slid from Erik's neck to where his shirt stuck to his chest, slowly, like something melting. He was probably disgusted.

"This doesn't seem to be the time or the place for it," Xavier said, confirming it.

"Sorry," Erik released him, and when Xavier stayed perfectly upright on his feet with the aid of the cane, Erik backed away.

"We'll talk later," Xavier said. "Privately. May I call on you?"

That sounded more meaningful than mere conversation-- and what could they possibly have to say to each other that couldn't be said in public? They'd only just met.

It didn't matter. Xavier was related to Kurt Marko, who might have a connection, however tenuous and slight, to Klaus Schmidt. Maybe if Erik humored whatever Xavier had in mind, he'd have a chance to do some questioning of his own.

"Of course," he said.

The smile Charles gave him in return was so purely pleased and so brilliant that Erik's own knees felt a little in danger of folding under him. 

"Til then," Charles beamed, and strode off, cane swinging at his side.

Erik returned to the suite after a quick wash in the locker-rooms to find Danvers had fallen violently ill.

"The oysters," he moaned into the wastebasket. "Shouldn't have eaten them. Maybe there's something in this kosher business. I've never seen you taken sick. And there's that blasted party at sea tonight. Why at sea." Danvers gazed up at Erik with rheumy eyes. "You'll have to go alone."

Erik tamped down his excitement. "What party?"

"At the Caspartina at seven. Xavier sent along two invitations. One for you as well, though I don't see what's the point. The suits should be enough for you."

"The suits?"

"Where have you been all day? He likes you. And if you're smart, you'll take the chance. Men like him don't come along every day. Maybe it's just his peculiar idea of courtesy, but I think those are real emeralds on the cufflinks. Nobody sends jewelry just to be polite. Carpe diem." With that, Danvers heaved again and Erik left him to it, returning to his own room. 

The packages had been opened, since they were addressed to Danvers. After all, Danvers hadn't even allowed Erik to introduce himself. Charles didn't know Erik's name until just a few minutes ago. 

But the suits were for him. There were three of them, the last accompanied by invitations for this evening's party.

There was a note, too. "Please accept my apologies. Sincerely, Charles F. Xavier."

The material was finer than anything Erik had ever felt. He couldn't tell if the emeralds at the cuffs were real, but the gold was, and the pure silver threading through them.

Erik thought of his cheap spoiled shirt, still soaking in the tub, and felt an abrupt tug of misery. He had never been rich enough to give gifts. 

He left the clothes hanging in his closet, though he pocketed the cufflinks. "I'm going to lunch," he informed Danvers, thinking that perhaps Charles would be there. 

Except apparently he wasn't to go down at all. "You're eating here, Lehnsherr," Danvers said, looking terribly pale. "We need to strategize. Don't look resentful. Who's the one who's ill? Who's paying for your food and lodging? If we play this one right, you'll probably be able to afford your own suits in the future. Men like Xavier don't give something for nothing. That's not how rich men stay rich."

Seeing Erik startle, Danvers began laughing. "Oh, Lehnsherr. You're younger than you look, but that's all right. Get me what I want and I'll tell you how to turn this into an investment instead of merely a transaction."

"What do you want, then?" Erik said, hating everything and everyone, himself included, for daring to imagine-- what? That Xavier liked him? He didn't even know him. They'd only spoken twice. If his stomach flipped at the thought that Charles wanted to speak to him _privately,_ well... maybe whatever had made Danvers sick was catching. 

"I know that Xavier wants to divest himself of Marko's businesses. He's been doing so since he came into his inheritance, but Marko tied up a lot of the money into long-term investments, some of which have only recently come to light. And his wife's death kept Xavier from attending to the business much for a while. This is where we, or rather I, come in. I know people who might be interested in taking over those investments. What you have to do, Erik, is convince Charles Xavier to trust me to act as his agent."

"How can I convince him when he doesn't even know me?" Erik asked, uncomfortably aware of the cufflinks in his pocket.

"What an astounding statement. How did you learn French without reading the literature?” Danvers cried, in that patronizing tone that he'd used often when Erik first came under his employ. “You are going to wear the suit he gave you to the party. You're going to talk to him. Don't worry, he'll want to talk to you. And you will let him do whatever he likes, after-- and this is very important, _after--_ he promises you that I'll be his agent, and signs this contract."

"Whatever he likes?" Erik repeated, taking the contract. 

"You should get the name and number of his solicitor in London as well," Danvers said, eyeing Erik. "Promise him whatever he wants. Whether you go through with it, of course, is your choice. I recommend that you do. I would be very disappointed to learn that I'm not in his good graces after tonight."

Erik began to understand Danvers' enthusiasm as they went over how much exactly Charles could afford and what Danvers could charge for his services. While lying in his room, Danvers had made a thorough investigation into the most recent stock market news. Xavier Corp. was on the rise; its pharmaceutical acquisitions were turning huge profits.

And like all companies with enviable growth, it was looking quickly to shed any dubious past. Danvers, Erik had reason to know, was more aware than most of what and how dubious Xavier Corp.'s past was, especially under the guidance of Marko.

He skipped lunch, since Danvers couldn't stand the sight of food. At six o'clock, he was told to go and scrub up. 

In the bathroom, Erik dumped his old shirt into the sink, washed himself, then he came out and dressed in his new clothes, trying very hard to remember that he was on a mission greater than himself, reminding himself not to resent the figure in the glass staring back at him, expensively and exquisitely attired, as if he belonged to the set of people he was about to fool.

"Are you decent?" Danvers called from the other side of the adjoining door of their suite. Erik scowled at the reminder, but let the other man in.

"Had I known," Danver said, smirking to himself, as he looked up and down Erik, then shook his head. "Never mind. This is what's important. You look wonderful. My eldest brother at his debut at court looked like this."

"Though I'm certain he wasn't about to do what I'm about to."

"It's not very different. I can retire after this and I can make sure you do, too. He'll marry you, my chick, and you won't have to worry about being hungry or poor again."

Erik didn't know how that was possible, but Danvers was clearly in one of his expansive moods, for he started talking about his life before the war again, finally ushering Erik out with what sounded more like threats than reassurance.

The yacht was larger than Erik had imagined. They always looked so much smaller from shore. It would be impossible to find Charles among this many people. He drifted from conversation to conversation, finally beckoned over by one of the girls he met at the tennis courts.

She looked inordinately pleased to see him. The older woman beside her, the mother, glanced at him approvingly before inviting him into the conversation. There was a German with them; Erik was asked to interpret. His hackles raised, but he couldn't be sure. A man's personality could seem different from language to language. It wasn't until the man spoke in his native tongue that Erik knew him for who he was.

Erik could never have forgotten that voice. He had grown bald, his face wrinkled and spotted with age, and he was introduced by a different name, but those hands Erik had shook a moment ago were hideously familiar; those pale colorless eyes had looked down upon Erik strapped down on Herr Doktor Schmidt's table.

"Are you all right?" the girl asked. Erik blinked, came back to himself and forcibly stilled the increasing vibration of the metal around him.

"I was just saying, yes, the mutant question is something very familiar to Germany," Schmidt's Igor said. "Where are you from, Mr. Lehnsherr?"

"Düsseldorf."

"How fortunate," the man spoke in English. "I'm from Düsseldorf, too. Perhaps I knew your parents." He switched to German again, and smiled. Erik suppressed a shudder. "What were their names?"

Erik replied in German, keeping his tone pleasant. "They had no names. You took them. You took my name, too. Do you remember the mutant boy on Schmidt's table?"

He saw the man's eyes dart to the metals around them. He held his hand to his jaw, and began to bleed from the mouth. 

Someone gave a little scream, but the man began running. Erik chased after him, pulling people out of the way by their belts and rings and bracelets. He caught a flash of startled blue eyes as he leapt over the railing, and heard a satisfying yell as he crushed the German's watch around the delicate bones of the wrist.

Then he was slammed into the world of cold and dark. He had lost his tenuous grasp on the doktor he was chasing. A vast metallic shape was moving quickly away. His power spilled over, pulling against it, but he was towed deeper and deeper into the ocean. 

Suddenly he felt another presence somehow in his head, then a pair of arms around him, severing the connection. 

He surfaced to the sight of Charles Xavier's shocked face.

"It's all right, Erik. You're safe now." To the faces hanging over the rail, Charles called out, "Here! We're over here!"

They were hauled into a lifeboat then into the yacht again.

Once the two came safely back aboard, people began applauding Charles, who kept a firm arm over Erik's shoulders.

Someone wrapped them in blankets. Erik found himself ushered upstairs into a suite. 

"I'll be next door," Charles said. "There's a W.C., and dry things in the drawers."

Erik realised that he was in Charles' rooms. "I'm sorry about your suit." 

"Don't worry about it," Charles said. "It's a gift. I'm just glad it didn't drown you. It's admirable, what you do." He paused. "Trying to save that man."

"I tried," Erik said, allowing it to stand as confirmation.

"I doubt they're going to find him," Charles said. "I believe he's dead."

Dead, Erik thought, savoring the thought a little before realizing how stupid he had been. The satisfaction of the death of one man who deserved it could not offset the fact that he had destroyed his relations with Danvers, and so, disrupted and perhaps even lost what progress he had made in hunting down Schmidt and his other associates. Without introduction, Erik could not hope to remain in the echelon of society where they hid snug and complacent. 

And he'd found Charles again, but what a picture he must have made, dripping and panicked like a drowned rat.

His suit was a disaster. Erik dried himself and flushed the damp mess of the contract from the pocket of his trousers down the toilet. He looked at the contents of the drawers and would've taken a shirt and the pants, but just then Danvers' words came back to him. He stripped again and put the robe on next to his naked skin. Perhaps there was still a chance.

 _Whatever he likes,_ Danvers had said. This would be nothing that Charles wouldn't have seen, if events had proceeded as planned. Still, Erik tightened the belt before emerging. 

He was surprised to find Charles on the other side, changed out of his own soaked things into a set of sweats, his hair still in wet tufts.

"I was going to see if you--" Charles' eyes moved down to his throat where the robe gaped open before snapping upward again, fixing Erik with that remarkable gaze. "If you wanted anything..."

Erik braced himself. "Would you come in? I want to talk to you, in private." Charles nodded and entered. "I know it's forward of me," Erik said, going to sit on the bed, "but I would like to ask you if you would--" he hesitated, becoming uncertain. Charles looked distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps he had no such interest in Erik at all. And what were suits and emeralds to a millionaire? Danvers could've misread the whole situation. Xavier was being courteous, that was all.

"Thank you for the suits," he said, settling on manners.

"Did you get my note?"

"It's only a shirt."

"It didn't fit you." Charles said. "Neither did that suit." He said it as if it had personally offended him, irritating Erik.

"It was what I could afford."

"Mr. Danvers seems very well off."

"He's my employer," Erik snapped. "Not my keeper."

Charles fell into silence. Then he said, "How are you employed?"

"I'm his secretary and traveling companion," Erik answered.

"Companion?" Charles frowned. "As an occupation, that could mean most anything. What do you do?"

"I keep him company," Erik said. "I do his accounts and take care of his correspondence. I run his errands. I'm his friend."

"And is he yours? --Forgive me," Charles said suddenly. "I'm glad you have a friend. I forget myself, sometimes."

But he was still looking at Erik and Erik was suddenly very aware that he was naked under his robe. He shifted uncomfortably. "I might not be his friend for much longer," he said.

"Well, you're very young," Charles said. "You have your own life to live. I'm sure Mr. Danvers understands."

Erik found himself at a loss. He didn't want Charles to leave, but he didn't know what would make him stay. Danvers promised him that if Erik carried out this assignment, he could contrive to get Charles to marry him, but now Erik didn't even know how to broach the topic of Charles' finances. They had plotted how to navigate the conversation, but none of those paths seemed applicable now.

In pursuit of his usual quarry, Erik was rarely at a loss, but he had no idea how to present himself as prey.

He played with the ends of the belt on his robe, running the velvet ends through his hands nervously before looking up at Charles. "I think he finds me rather inadequate in some respects," he confessed quietly.

Charles smiled gently. "I don't see how. You were very brave tonight, going into the water like that."

"And you went in after me. Did you know it was me?"

"Yes," Charles answered. "You're rather unmistakable, you know. You cut quite the figure tonight."

Erik took his chance. "I'm supposed to ask you if you would allow Mr. Danvers to act as your agent for your interests in Europe."

"That's what you're worried about?" Charles laughed. "What a friend, indeed. And what does Mr. Danvers offer in return?"

"Anything you like," Erik said. He wondered if the bed would be big enough. Charles was not tall, but he wasn’t frail, despite the cane. Or perhaps there wouldn’t be much movement at all. 'A bit of in and out,' didn't the English call it that? It didn't sound too energetic.

"Anything?" Charles asked, raising an eyebrow. "What if I would like his companion for myself?"

"He says yes."

Erik was prepared for-- anything, really, except for Charles reaching out a hand as if offering to shake. "Very well. Assuming you agree, of course."

"Of course," Erik said, joining the handshake. To his confusion, Charles promised to raise his salary substantially and keep Erik in better clothes, and declared that he was going to telephone Danvers straightaway, withdrawing to his room.

Erik waited in the cabin for Charles to return, but the minutes ticked by, and after the shock, the exertion, the cold and commotion and hours of uncertainty on an empty stomach, Erik nodded off. 

When he woke up, Danvers was knocking urgently at his door.

"Look at you," he surveyed Erik, who flushed, realising that he was still only in a robe. He raised his hand self-consciously to his hair. "You wonderful boy. Xavier's solicitor telephoned me this morning about what you did. I've told him about the news, and everyone else of course. I won't let it be for nothing, Erik. I'm good for my word. I'll retire to Monte Carlo, I think, after all this. Essex has been hankering after Marko's businesses."

Erik was still reeling when Danver suddenly lowered his voice, "Now, tell me, are you hurt? Do you need a doctor? Xavier doesn't look the type to be rough, but you never know. An examination might be embarrassing, but don't hide any injuries. I've heard of some very nasty side effects."

"I--" Erik began to reply when he heard Charles' voice greeting them.

Danvers wasted no time telling Charles, "Erik's been dear to me. I hope you take good care of him as well. He has no one in the world, you know. I met him when he was still wandering the streets in Paris."

Erik had been 'wandering' the streets of Paris hunting for a cache of Nazi gold when he encountered Danvers, who was arranging for their transportation, but he didn't interrupt.

"He's still a very unworldly young man in some ways-- but I suppose you know that by now," Danvers continued. "He's untutored in some respects, a little unpolished, but he learns quickly."

"I don't think I'll find anything inadequate about Erik," Charles said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I would really prefer to close this door."

"I've brought up the clothes you sent Erik before. No matter how nice he looks as is, he'll need to be dressed in public, Mr. Xavier."

Charles clearly seemed taken aback by this statement, but he simply said, "Please feel free to come in or go out, but let me pass and shut the door, please. I need to arrange for Erik's accommodations."

Once Charles was gone, Danvers told Erik that he needed to go down to breakfast where Danvers was going to announce their engagement.

"But he hasn't--" _Done anything. Asked for anything_ , Erik going to say, but Danvers assured him that it didn't matter.

"He went into the water after you. He saved your life. It makes a pretty story. Gives people ideas. And everyone knows he took you straight to his rooms afterward and kept you here. They're all talking about it; you can thank me for that. If it comes down to it, we can get a doctor's examination. I hope you resisted at least a little," Danvers said. "But either way, I know someone who can produce the necessary documents. Provided you cooperate with your testimony."

"He's a rich man. I don't see why he should fear some legal scrutiny when he can just go back to America or England," Erik pointed out.

"I've seen how he looks at you. And he's already traded me to have you. A companion, a husband, what difference does it make to a man like him? Do you want to marry him or not? Think of the money and the connections. Or would you rather just be another notch on Xavier's bedpost?"

Before Erik could point out that Charles hadn't even touched him, Danvers bustled off. 

Erik reflected that marrying Xavier certainly would have advantages. And Charles had asked for his companionship, after all. Erik would pay his dues, whatever that might require. 

When Erik emerged onto the deck, he was ushered into the dining room and sat at the captain's table. By the time Charles arrived, brushing his hair back from his temple, the captain himself was standing up for a toast. 

Danvers must have put in quite an effort. No one seemed suspicious at all about the disappearance of the German man, Schmidt's erstwhile assistant. The captain only vaguely alluded to the 'poor sick gentleman' Erik supposedly tried to help before Charles saved him in turn. The company lavished praise on the two of them for their so-called heroics, the German all but cast out of mind.

Talk soon turned to the romance of the rescue. Erik suffered the congratulations with an expression he hoped was perceived as shyness rather than guilt. 

What followed was the most ridiculous thing Erik had ever heard, but apparently so affecting that there were sighs all around the table. Danvers spun the story of Charles asking to hire Erik as his companion, pretending to misunderstand the request as a wedding proposal. The guests ate it up. Erik watched Charles, however, and realised with dismay that his expression was taking on a peculiar stoniness.

Erik was prepared to be soundly rebuffed and denounced, Charles' particular affection for him bound to grow cold when the question came to whether Charles really would take Erik as his husband and cherish him forever, all on the strength of a day's acquaintance.

Danvers was glaring daggers at his side, since Erik was failing to play his part in this game, this abominable deceit that seemed now more terrible than any financial scheme Erik had seen him concoct. Charles had shown nothing but kindness to him, asking for nothing, except perhaps he did-- Erik was no longer certain. Charles had looked at him... as he was looking at him now, though Erik was fully clothed.

"If Erik accepts," Charles said warmly, "I would treasure his companionship and friendship at my side and in my home."

"Say yes," Danvers was whispering. He had bribed the captain already, Erik was becoming certain. 

He was proven right an hour later, when they were married at sea, and the captain presented him to the company as the newly minted husband of Dr. Charles Francis Xavier of Westchester, New York.

-

Charles turned to him the moment they returned to the privacy of his-- their-- rooms. "I wanted a chance to speak to you in private. I hadn't planned to go quite this far to secure it. You come very dear." He shook his head, smiling. "Never mind. Erik, what I wanted to tell you is simply that-- you're not alone. I'm like you. I'm a mutant."

"You know about me?" Erik tensed.

"I'm--" Charles hesitated a moment. “I'm an empath. Do you know what it is?" 

Erik did; he'd always read anything he could lay hands on about mutants, ever since his liberation during the war. There wasn't much. Mutants had only been identified as such when some individuals volunteered their powers for the war effort, and as soon as the fighting was over, the same governments that had found mutants so useful in battle began to view them with an air of suspicion that Erik found sickeningly familiar.

"My mutation allowed me to find you in the water,” Charles said. “It let me sense your own mutation as well, when we met. I had hoped to tell you earlier because there are so few of us, and I thought-- but then I got caught up in hiring you away from that man.”

“Can you do more?” Erik asked and floated the coins in his pockets into the air, making them dance.

“I don’t,” Charles said, appearing fascinated with the display. “But I believe I can help you develop your power further, if you care to learn. If you would like to come home with me, to the States?”

“Where else would I go?” Erik was seized with the fear that he would be left stranded, to start all over again. The wedding had been mere ceremony, the union couldn't be legal yet, and at any rate a man of Charles' resources could have it annulled easily enough.

“I only thought-- Never mind. Yes, come home with me. Your Mr. Danvers was willing to trade you away so lightly; you deserve a better friend. I’ll be your friend, if you'll have me.”

If there was something wistful in Charles' tone. Erik thought it was too early to tell if it was uncharacteristic. Charles Xavier was unlike anyone he had ever met, but Erik had never associated with anyone for longer than a few weeks of his own volition, except for Danvers. And Charles could not be considered similar to Danvers at all. 

They’d had no wedding except the hastily exchanged vows on the deck. They hadn't yet consummated their marriage. The idea knotted Erik’s stomach. Charles had not even kissed him at the wedding, it being so hurriedly arranged and officiated.

At least this arrangement was in order: Erik's luggage was in the second room of the suite, where Charles had planned to install him after hiring Erik as his employee. 

Now they were husbands. Erik changed out of his clothes. Sleeping naked was out of the question; the night was clear, and the moon through the portholes shone bright enough to highlight all his scars. His nightshirt probably wasn't suitable for a wedding night, but it was all he had. 

Erik had always been prepared to give up this last part of himself to the hunt if necessary. Allowing Charles Xavier-- handsome, a fellow mutant, so strangely kind-- to touch him would cost Erik less pride than any possibility he'd ever contemplated in the past.

Despite those contemplations, he wasn't as resigned as he'd like to be. It galled him to feel his nerves twist, his stomach bunching in trepidation as he listened to Charles cleaning up in the W.C.

He was astonished when Charles tapped at his door, and then wondered why he was surprised. The man had been polite to him in every particular, so far.

Danvers had suggested that it was impossible to tell if a man would be rough or tender in the bedroom from his behavior outside of it, and for his part, Erik didn't know what to hope for. Rough would probably be over sooner. If it went quickly, Erik's own ignorance would be less obvious. 

At least he had practice at remaining impassive. Erik composed himself and opened the door.

Charles was smoothing his hair back from his temple, but that gesture was the only thing that betrayed any hesitation. Looking down at him, Erik could see the lamplight gleaming on strands of silver among the brown waves of his hair, reminding him again that Charles had several years on him, though Erik still didn't know exactly how many.

Despite his youthful face, Charles was significantly older, and widowed. Even though his previous spouse was a woman, Charles had been single, wealthy and attractive for a year; Erik was all too aware of the opportunities open to him. Not to mention, the gossip that Charles had been a free spirit before his marriage. Charles was bound to be experienced beyond what Erik could imagine. 

But Erik could learn. He forced his shoulders to relax.

"Quite a day," Charles offered, smiling a little. "All this excitement. I expect you're exhausted."

"Not at all," Erik said. It sounded stiff even to his own ears.

"Ah, youth," said Charles, a trifle ironically. "I'm afraid I can't say the same. I must bid you good night," this too said with some little irony, and he rested his hand on Erik's shoulder and leaned up, and kissed Erik on the cheek before he could react. "Good night, Erik," he repeated more quietly, and Charles stepped back, and closed the door between them.

-

Planning was underway for another reception in New York, this time with all Charles’ friends and relatives. Erik read about the preparations and the guest list. Charles didn’t comment when Erik failed to add any names, but set him to acquaint himself with his new accounts. Erik was glad of the study; it distracted from thinking too deeply about this farce he had agreed to under Danvers' guidance.

Erik had always been barely at the peripheries of wealth. Money. Connections. As the husband of Charles Xavier, Erik would have resources he had only dreamt of, before.

He couldn't help noticing how Charles’ lawyers and bankers judged him. His youth. His inexperience. His extraction. No doubt they thought Erik was a gold-digger, confirming all their worst fears. 

Charles was apparently free of any such concerns, and unfailingly generous. They went to London first, where they stayed in a townhouse. Charles had him measured for bespoke suits and outfitted him with an entire wardrobe before disappearing for “business;” he left Erik with a chauffeur who drove Erik wherever he liked during the day before returning him to their hotel for the evening, when there was inevitably some dinner party to introduce Erik to yet more acquaintances and associates.

Tedious as they were, the dinners were a small price to pay for the freedom of Erik's days, which were crowded with research for the hunt. He couldn't even be disappointed that Charles could scarcely be induced to speak about his stepfather; after weeks of marriage, Erik knew little more about Kurt Marko than those benighted tennis-court gossips back in Saint-Tropez. 

It didn't seem to matter much, when far more solid leads materialized for Erik everywhere in London. He regretted never coming to England before; crucial intelligence seemed almost to fall into his lap here, laying out a trail to South America. 

But before, this information likely would have been beyond his reach. He was already seeing the benefit of Charles' name and money, and he had no doubt it would aid him further when he had enough to go on to proceed to Argentina.

“If you like, we can stay,” Charles said over their chess game. Their flight to the States was scheduled for early in the morning. It had seemed useless to sleep, given the impending time zone difference, so Charles had proposed the game. 

Erik enjoyed chess. It was one of the few things in his life he learned as a child for no other reason than the pleasure of it. Charles, being older and presumably more practised, was much better. He had beaten Erik four times already, but it had been thirty moves each this round and there was still no clear winner.

At Charles' question, Erik looked up from the board. “I thought we were going to Greymalkin tomorrow. You had people plan a whole wedding.” He tried to not sound plaintive, possibly failing.

Even Erik knew that a wedding party, no matter how belated, was not cancelled without repercussions. 

“We don’t have to have a party if you don’t want it.” Charles seemed unhappy about something. “Or we can have it someplace other than Greymalkin.”

But Greymalkin was Charles’ home, and the idea had grown on Erik: it was to be his as well. A base of operations on America's East Coast held some appeal, and he could use Charles' connection to Kurt Marko to investigate more deeply into Operation Paperclip. He was confident that given time, he could learn to direct Charles' whims to serve Erik's ends, the way he'd learned to direct Danvers.

But all those plans depended on Charles's indulgence now. And Erik wondered if Charles was already regretting the whole affair, regretting this business of marrying a young man with no name and no dowry. Erik didn't like to think of the gossip his presence must have generated in London out of his hearing, but he was now set upon his path and there was no other way. He needed Charles and Charles, for his part, must still retain some fondness for Erik to ask about his preference at all. 

“I want to see Greymalkin,” Erik said, feeling colour flooding his face, his voice almost trembling. “I want to go home... and I want... a wedding.” The marriage then would seem more real. Danvers might have arranged for Erik to marry Charles under false pretenses, but Erik had been ready that night after Charles saved him. He wouldn’t have minded, he thought, even if there had been no marriage. Charles had given him gifts and saved his life without expecting anything. It made Erik want to give him everything.

Charles checked him with the next move, but Erik didn’t care about the game any more.

“I want to be a good friend to you. Please remember that,” Charles said, “when I show you Greymalkin.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik arrive at Greymalkin and welcome guests for the wedding ceremony, but Erik’s first nights in the grand house are full of shadows…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: Erik's canon background features in this story, and Charles is a WWII veteran, so please be advised that this story will contain WWII and Holocaust references. 
> 
> WIP!

The flight exhausted Erik. He had never flown before. A plane was a container of metal, yet he didn't feel safe. They were high in the air, sealed within, but Erik felt as if something was escaping him, flowing beyond the darkness of the cabin into the atmosphere beyond.

He finally noticed the grooves his fingers made in the leather armrests when Charles asked the flight attendants to bring them wine with dinner. Erik drank, and felt his nerves settle.

A man waited with a sign for XAVIER at the airport. Erik started toward the baggage carousel, but Charles took his hand and guided him to the car. Erik was too tired still to protest. 

He slept through most of the drive from the airport. When he woke, the sky was overcast. Charles was a pensive bundle of wool and tweed beside him. He had not spoken to Erik since they left Customs. 

The maps indicated about two hours' drive. Erik glanced down at his watch and did a rough estimate in his head. They should be nearly there.

A few minutes later, the car left the main road and entered what appeared to be the countryside. The clustered houses disappeared from view, replaced by an expanse of forest and hills, a hectic mass of orange, yellows, and reds, like some modernist painting.

“It's more beautiful in the spring, but I think the clouds are clearing,” Charles said beside him. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you better weather, but on the other hand, I imagine you'd hate the summer, it can be terribly humid. We usually go to the seaside for the worst of it. And there’s nothing to see in winter.”

It was absurd to apologise for the weather. “I don’t mind,” said Erik, feeling suddenly a concentration of wrought metal ahead. Iron. “We're close to the house.”

“Not very. We’re close to the gates,” Charles said. “Can you feel them, from so far away? What is it like?”

Erik didn’t know how to describe it. No one had ever asked him; no one had known there was anything _to_ ask, not since Erik escaped from Schmidt. What did water feel like? Or air? Or colours? Erik had always been aware of the proximity of metal, even before he realised he could control it. 

“What do emotions feel like?” he asked Charles instead.

“I don’t sense physical things. Feelings are a... dynamic impression, I suppose. You know what your own emotions feel like, the difference for me is that I can sense them coming from everyone." Charles turned to face him more fully, his manner oddly earnest. "I understand that people need privacy, though. We're making a home together, now, and I promise that I won't read anything from you unless you invite me first." 

Surprised, Erik nodded.

Charles smiled and sat back, merely friendly now, the air of intimate sincerity melting away as if it had never been. "Your mutation is magnificent. Can you tell me what the gates are like?”

“A denseness,” Erik answered. They were drawing closer, but it had no shape in Erik’s mind, just an impression of immensity. He tried to convey this to Charles.

“The fence and gates surround the whole estate,” Charles said. “It'd fallen into disuse by my father’s time, eaten up by the forests, but my stepfather restored it. It was the only thing that remained standing on this side after the fire. I don’t like it, but it seemed a pity to tear it down.”

The gates were iron, but painted white and festooned with garlands of lavender and cornflowers.

“For the wedding,” Charles said, as the driver stopped the car and started swearing about the unopened gates.

Erik waved his hand, turning the locks, then swung the massive doors wide.

“How marvelous!” Charles smiled at him enormously. Despite faint lines around his eyes and the grey in his hair, that smile made him look young. “Welcome to Greymalkin, Erik. It seems you’ll never need a key.”

It would be easy to tell where the road ended and Greymalkin began even without the gate. The drive here was gravel. The trees were larger and a different kind, the branches more knotted and gnarled, some leaves still green. 

Though the undergrowth was kept back from the the drive, the turf flanking either side was covered with a carpet of gold leaves. They went up a hill, then descended down a twisting way. The overstory covered them in darkness, with the sunlight dappling through the shadows. Around the bend in the road, the trees disappeared and Erik saw the house for the first time. 

Charles had told him that the house was 'rather large.' Danvers had called it a mansion. To Erik, in the gloomy autumn of the early morning, with its austere mullioned windows, the severe geometry of the dark red brick work, the Gothic spires rising into the sky, it looked like a castle.

“Slightly ridiculous, I know,” Charles said. “But home is home.”

Closer, the details were beautiful as an example of the architecture of its era, but against the wide American landscape, the effect was startlingly fantastical. 

The car slowed and Erik’s gaze was drawn to the large fountain. A lone faun stood in the middle with panpipes. Like the gates, he was garlanded, but Erik’s attention was drawn to the concentration of loose metal beyond the fountain-- buttons, keys, pocket change, all of it body-warm.

“Who are those people?” he asked.

“I wish they wouldn’t have come so soon, but they’re curious, I suppose. After all, I wrote them rather out of the blue. They must’ve already done up the house for tonight. They’re more friends than guests,” Charles said. “Don’t worry about anything. I’ve known them all for ages, but if you’re tired, we can always save the introductions for later.”

Erik wouldn’t have minded, but Charles was very curt with his friends, who all tried very hard not to stare at Erik, and fumbled to offer congratulations without remarking on the suddenness of the marriage or asking his origins.

What must these people think of me, Erik thought, wondering if they were all humans as he shook their hands. They seemed bright and happy, with an exuberance absent in Europeans except for the very young. 

He was suddenly glad it wasn’t summer, when it would’ve been strange to wear long sleeves. He would never be ashamed of his past or his heritage, but he had the impression that it would embarrass Charles. He didn’t know why he thought this way; Charles had never told him not to mention his Jewishness or his mutation, but Erik was all too aware of human prejudice. He had refrained from shellfish and pork at the dinners in London, but that had been all. 

He had settled into a habit of outward meekness with Danvers, he realised, which grated on him. But perhaps Charles expected the same. After all, he had intended to employ Erik, not to marry him. That Erik now stood as the master of Greymalkin was only his kindness. 

They got the marriage license in London, but Charles still slept in another room and treated Erik as a friend. Except for the nightly kiss on the cheek, no more passionate than a French greeting, he had not asked for anything more.

The gathered friends didn't seem to mind Charles' brusque mood, and despite his abrupt manner, Charles saw them settled in the dining room, where lunch waited on the sideboard, before excusing himself and Erik.

Charles led him out to the main foyer. Greymalkin seemed even larger on the inside, simply vast. The stairway stacked up before them like the Spanish Steps of Rome, and that dining room-- not even the banquet hall, only the dining room-- it had been the size of a restaurant.

“I've had the east wing refurbished for you,” Charles was saying. “It's quiet, and it overlooks the rose gardens. There are lavender bushes there. I remember you mentioned you like the scent. The place is rather big and tends to be a bit empty. There’s the staff of course, but most of them are gone now. If you get lost, you can just ring a bell. Those are all still connected to the garage and kitchen, and there’s always someone there.”

“I don’t get lost,” Erik said, thinking to tell Charles about how he always knew north-- true north-- but Erik had lost Charles’ attention. 

Charles opened one of the endless rooms in the corridor and said distractedly, “I’ll see you for dinner. Moira reminded me that I’ve a few calls to make. If you need anything, there’s the bell. We have caterers and other people here tonight for the preparations, so you’ll have to say Moira’s name if it’s not anything food-related. She’s volunteered to make all the arrangements.” 

Moira MacTaggert, Erik remembered, was the slim, dark-eyed woman who had looked at Erik skeptically and spoken to him as if he were some exotic pet or souvenir Charles had picked up during his travels. 

There were still some hours until the rest of the overnight guests would arrive, but someone had already unpacked for him. Erik’s evening suit had been pressed and laid out, and his cufflinks and pocketwatch waited on the dresser. Charles had bought him the pocketwatch when he realised Erik was eyeing the piece, sensing its practically perfect mechanism. The chess set, another gift from Charles, was already set on the table, all the pieces in their positions. 

The room was even more richly decorated than Charles’ London townhouse, but everything had a smell of newness to it. The surface of the writing desk was unmarked, the leather-backed chairs looked like perfectly restored antiques that belonged behind velvet ropes. When Erik opened the bathroom, the tub and the basin gleamed white. New towels and toiletries filled the shelves.

The drawers and closets were already filled with his clothes-- and only his clothes, Erik realised. He knew that aristocratic couples were known to keep separate bedrooms, but he thought the practise outdated. Then again, it could be simply that Charles didn't plan to sleep beside him at all, even now that they were back at Greymalkin, to be wedded in front of his friends, all of whom had known Charles so much longer and better than Erik.

Erik opened the windows and took a deep breath. The scent of roses and lavender filled the air. It soothed him and reminded him of his mother’s small garden in his childhood. Even after they were restricted to the ghetto, somehow her clothes still smelled like lavender. 

It was useless to speculate whether his parents would’ve liked Charles, but Erik wanted to imagine that they would approve. It was better than imagining what they would think of Erik’s reasons for marrying him.

-

Quite a few of the wedding guests were staying over at Greymalkin the night before. Erik had seen it in the messages about the preparations, but he hadn't been able to imagine it, picturing people stowing on couches and making bedrolls on the floor. Despite being told about it, he hadn't really compassed the size of the place until they arrived. Now that he was here, he saw how ridiculous it would be to ask anyone to stay at a hotel. Greymalkin was itself larger than many hotels. 

He hadn't considered what the early guests would mean for their first evening. He dressed carefully for dinner. Nearly all the dinner guests were the same crowd who'd greeted them when Erik was rumpled and run down from travel. But perhaps there was still time to amend his first impression on Charles' friends.

"I won't introduce you to the staff just yet," Charles said as he escorted Erik down to dinner. "We have so many extra people in to help with the wedding, and most of them won't be staying on. When things settle down, you can meet the regulars. Though I expect you're a bit fed up with all these introductions, and of course tomorrow night will be a marathon."

"It's nothing," Erik said. It was true he didn't particularly enjoy the prospect of meeting another parade of society people, enduring all the ways they'd take his measure and find him wanting. Still, all he had to do, as much as he could gather from these occasions, was to look nice and mind his manners while sitting next to his husband. No one had expected conversation beyond remarks about the weather from him in London. He merely had to sit and smile and be waited on. Odd, when a month ago, as Danvers’ companion, he was serving tea to people like his guests, lighting their cigarettes.

"Good, then. Anyway, after tomorrow we'll be able to get on with things. Here we are," Charles smiled as two men in immaculate uniforms-- under-butlers? ushers? doormen?-- opened the doors for them.

The susurrus of conversation faded as they entered the room, and the guests seemed to wait for a cue from Charles. He raised his voice and smiled, "Thank you all for joining us this evening!" and the noise resumed, louder and merrier, as his friends came to greet them again, the earlier terseness forgotten.

Charles seemed determined now to ensure that his friends thought well of his new groom. Erik learned that he was an accomplished and well-traveled young man, that he had an astonishing knack for languages, that he kept a stunning travel sketchbook; that they became acquainted when Charles saw Erik courageously attempt to rescue a man who disappeared into the ocean, and insisted on attending to Erik afterward.

"Charles jumped in after me," Erik added when Charles neglected to mention that part himself.

"Of course he did," Charles' friend Emma said, rolling her eyes.

Erik didn't elaborate, the next time the story was told.

Dinner was nine courses and seemed to go on forever. Erik found himself envying Charles when he was summoned away to take a phone call.

If anyone was offended that Charles had gathered most of the guests of Erik's age near the head of the table, no one made an overt sign of it. Erik had been displayed to neighbors, businessmen, judges, philanthropists, but it was this coterie of younger friends who seemed closer to Erik’s age than Charles’ with whom Charles seemed the most familiar. Erik had known of older men who preferred the company of younger men and women. Charles had not seemed the type. But then, he'd married Erik. 

Perhaps the other guests thought Charles was humoring his young groom, trying to introduce him to potential friends his own age. Erik couldn't imagine having anything in common with these light, free young people.

"Greymalkin used to have legendary parties. Charles' mother used to throw them in her day, and they were just as famous when Raven was here," Sean confided. He was freckly with messy-looking red curls. Erik had always disliked his own hair's tendency to curl, and tried to clip and comb it straight. He preferred to look neat, and blend in.

“He said you were good-looking in his letter," Alex told him bluntly. "But it’s kind of a surprise that he'd go for a man after Raven. Angel was betting that he must have picked up one of those gold, tanned types.”

Angel herself said, “No offense to you. It's just that... Raven was blonde, you know, very beautiful, and very-- feminine. She looked a little like Grace Kelly. In fact, there were rumors that she got an offer from a producer from Hollywood and was going to head to California... oh-- shrimp cocktail.” She suddenly became very interested in the food.

“What happened?” Erik asked. The name itself seemed unusual enough, _Raven_. He couldn’t imagine Charles living in California and letting his wife go into films. Even Erik knew that acting, glamorous as it could seem, wasn't typically the aspiration of good girls, never mind wives of professors who lived in venerable mansions.

Alex looked uncomfortable. His friend, Armando Muñoz, continued for him. “Raven and Charles grew up together. They married very young. Charles came back from the war hurt in a lot of ways. But he doted on her. If she'd really wanted to go to Hollywood, I'm sure he would've taken her.” He paused and said, “She loved the water. She was out on the lake when a storm blew up. Pieces of the boat washed up.”

"It was terrible. It happened just a few weeks after the fire," said Sean.

"The lake connects to Croton River," said Alex. "They found remains last year, down where it meets the Hudson. You probably couldn't even call it a body after all that time, but Charles took Raven's dental records to the coroner there, and they identified her."

"As soon as she was buried, he left for Europe. We weren't sure we'd ever see him again," Sean said.

"He looks much better now," said Angel. "A year ago everyone thought he was losing it."

“People thought it was the war, or the fire, or the accident. But the body mends. It’s the heart that has trouble," said Armando. "Now you're here... things will be better.”

Erik wondered what they'd say if he admitted that he had nothing to do with Charles's heart, or his body either, so far.

But Sean asked about the Riviera, and it was easy enough to mouth empty words about the beauty of Saint-Tropez until Charles returned to take up the baton of conversation, resting his hand on Erik's atop the table.

-

After bidding their guests farewell for the evening, Charles escorted Erik up the stairs and to his room, and he leaned on the doorframe instead of saying good night right away. Erik forced himself to relax.

"Do you have anything you'd like to change about the ceremony tomorrow?" Charles asked.

"No," Erik said. From everything he'd read of the plans, the ceremony would be very austere and unusually secular. He assumed Charles must have had a massive church wedding with Raven in a floating white dress and light streaming through elaborate stained-glass windows and so on. For a second wedding, the banquet hall here at Greymalkin was more than nice enough and a justice of the peace would suffice.

"You didn't want to include any other traditions?" Charles asked. "We still could, you know. We could have a canopy, or break a glass."

Erik tried not to be offended at the offer to add in some of his people's traditions at the last minute, as if they were merely flourishes. Those rituals meant so much more to him than gentile customs like wearing something blue or throwing a bouquet.

In London, Charles had mentioned he was an atheist. At the time Erik thought Charles was confiding in him, but he wasn't sure anymore. It was hard to distinguish between trust and indifference.

"It's fine," Erik said. "It's better that it's simple."

"All right," Charles said. "I did feel we should have something, so I asked some friends, and I had this made in London." He beckoned Erik into the corridor again and went to a decorative chest of drawers, giving the handle of the top drawer a tug. "I left the key. Would you...?"

Erik felt the mechanism, and unlatched the lock easily enough.

"Thank you," Charles smiled, pulling open the drawer. He drew out a flat parcel wrapped in brown paper, and with a jerk of his chin, summoned Erik over, and unwrapped it.

Erik stared. It was a framed ketubah, just the kind of thing he'd pictured on his wall, the very few times he'd imagined marrying and setting up house. The marriage contract was plain, simply a thin gold line encircling the words, but the Hebrew was beautifully inscribed.

He supposed it was a lucky stroke for him that whatever Jewish acquaintances Charles consulted in London told him to have the ketubah lettered in Hebrew, not Aramaic. Erik's relationship to his faith and culture had been unmoored and twisted by the war, but his parents had been Masorti and their ketubah was in Hebrew, and it was what he would have wanted for his own marriage contract.

The document was simple, but the frame was more elaborate, thin decorative strands of wrought iron twined in a stylized double helix to form the border.

"It's beautiful," Erik said, tracing the edge of the frame. "Thank you."

"I thought perhaps once it's signed, we could hang it here," Charles said, waving toward the wall. Erik felt the nail already waiting there.

"That would look good," Erik said.

"Splendid," Charles said. "We'll sign it tomorrow before the ceremony, then, and put it up after." He put the contract back in the drawer, and Erik locked it; Charles beamed at him again, the delighted smile that seemed to show so easily when Erik used his powers, and so rarely otherwise.

"I don't want you to worry about a thing tonight, or tomorrow," Charles said, taking Erik's arm and walking him back to his door. "Everything's in hand, and if you think of anything else you want, just ring down on the house phone and ask for Moira, she's coordinating everything. She's relentlessly organized and efficient, she'll let the right person know what needs doing and see that it gets done on time. Just relax, and rest up, all right?"

And he left Erik with the usual kiss on the cheek at the door.

One more night.

-

Erik tried to sleep in, the day of the wedding ceremony, but he had too much energy to stay in bed. A run around the estate and a shower helped a little. 

As he shut off the water, he heard what sounded like a brisk knock; it disturbed him that he wasn't familiar enough with the house to tell whether it was his own door or another, or a different sound entirely, a drawer opening and closing. He found himself irrationally worried the ketubah had been disturbed, and rushed out.

In the bedroom, he spotted the folded paper at once, left under his door. With the extravagance of this place, he wouldn't be surprised if it were a menu.

He dried more thorougly before touching it, and the moment he saw Charles's bold CFX at the bottom of the page, he yanked on his robe and looked out on the corridor. No one was there.

> Erik,  
>  I don't usually humor superstition, but since you aren't answering your door, perhaps we should count that as a sign that we ought not to see each other before the wedding. I'm going to town in the meantime. Enjoy yourself; explore if you like. Tell Moira if you need anything at all. I'll see you tonight.  
>  CFX

It was a trying day without Charles. From the moment Erik went down to breakfast, Sean seemed to appoint himself Erik's very unnecessary guardian angel, chatting with him over the meal, dogging his footsteps from the dining room, walking him around the house, reminding Erik at every turn that Charles' young friends knew the house and Charles himself much better than Erik did.

The only useful information Erik derived was the location of the library. He finally escaped Sean with a claim that he needed to see to his wedding costume, hours before he needed to dress. Sean seemed to take it as a sign of nerves and finally left him alone.

Erik played a chess game by himself before getting ready for the wedding party. No one wore tails in the States, so Erik’s suit for the occasion wasn't much different from the one he had ruined in the Mediterranean, if better made.

The old tailor at Saville Row had proudly informed Erik that he had made suits for three generations of Xaviers, then confided that Erik had a better figure than any of them; the breadth of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist were particularly suited to the European cut. The praise had embarrassed Erik, especially when the tailor produced a corset to be worn over his undershirt. 

It was optional, the tailor said, but some men preferred them, especially for the wedding night since there were few options for undergarments for men. The tailor confided that while tight-lacing had gone out of fashion, with some judicious application of corset and cincher, and both daily and nightly wear, he thought Erik’s waist could be neatened even a bit further so that his best features could be enhanced.

Erik had been certain he was blushing madly. Just to stop the man's chatter, he had said yes. Now, looking at the garment, he wondered again whether indeed Charles was the sort of man who'd like the idea of spanning his husband's waist with his hands.

The book Erik kept hidden at the bottom of his bag had gone into detail about what to expect for new husbands. He had bought it after that first night spent nervously waiting in vain for Charles.

Research, while useful for every other endeavor he had undertaken so far in life, proved less reassuring in this matter than he expected. Charles could want anything, and like most things, sex acts looked as if they required practise to perfect; and when the advice was not obscure, it seemed altogether contradictory. But Erik had had no partner, and unlike sparring or marksmanship, he couldn't simply go find someone to train and practise with him. The book seemed to imply, very heavily, that he should somehow, instinctively _know_ what his husband’s preferences were, and recommended satisfying them as best as he was able.

The corset had been made for him personally, stiffer than any he had worn before, forcing him to straighten his posture. Under shirt and waistcoat, it did seem to improve him somewhat. It was difficult to tell, when Erik wasn’t certain whether it was indeed his waist or his shoulders or perhaps the length of his legs, or maybe even his face that had caught first Charles’ attention. His figure, he remembered Charles mentioning that night on the yacht. It was all he had to go on.

Even if no one had used the ruder word. Even if it was to be marriage. In a way, Erik wanted to please Charles in bed because it was the only value he knew he had for Charles. He had, after all, been more expensive than Charles expected. And perhaps if he could bring Charles some sort of pleasure, it could ease the vague sense of guilt every time Charles asked him what he wanted as if he really cared for Erik.

The book mentioned love. 

No one else did. 

He was still wondering whether he should go to the main hall himself or wait for someone to fetch him when he heard Charles on the other side of the door asking him to escort him down the stairs.

Charles looked as handsome as when Erik had first seen him. His eyes always seemed so clear and so direct, and such a beautiful blue. He parted his brown hair on the side where it showed the most silver, as if to defy vanity. But it looked very becoming. His wedding costume was perfect, of course, and he had a different, decorative cane, made of silver and ebony but with a core of steel that Erik could sense. Charles himself seemed distracted and even annoyed as he adjusted Erik’s tie. There was a line between his brows that only cleared when they entered the banquet hall for the wedding procession.

The ketubah was waiting with the justice of the peace, and Erik watched Charles sign it and added his own signature too, a knot in his throat and a spreading warmth in his chest.

But the ceremony itself was a disappointment. It seemed to go by so fast, and it felt no more real than the farce on the yacht back in Saint-Tropez or the bloodless, meaningless papers they'd signed in London. Charles Xavier agreed to take Erik Lehnsherr as his lawfully wedded husband, to honor and care for him as long as they both should live. Erik swore the same oath. It was nothing like reading from the ketubah, and when it came time to exchange the rings-- Charles had let Erik choose them, simple platinum bands-- Charles slipped the ring on the wrong finger.

He wished Charles had never brought up the possibility of a chuppah or breaking a glass. Erik felt simultaneously hollow from the lack of the traditions he'd grown up with, and fiercely glad this flat, dry ceremony would give these gentiles nothing to goggle over, with none of the customs they might call funny or quaint or old-world.

Erik was so taken up in turmoil over the ceremony itself that he was taken by surprise when Charles kissed him, for the first time, on the lips-- so that, too, was over too quickly to seem real.

-

Charles hadn't exaggerated when he warned Erik the wedding reception would be a marathon. They greeted every single person, scores upon scores. After the four hundredth handshake, Erik began to feel as if he might really lose his mind, checking his nails compulsively. He remembered the rime of human ashes under his fingernails, one of his most enduring and abject memories from the camps. It seemed impossible that a single lifetime could contain that moment and also this, this empty parade of people in ballgowns and black tie, congratulating Erik for accidentally ensnaring a wealthy and powerful man in matrimony.

At last the receiving line, at least, was over, and they were free to join the guests at the reception. Charles lifted a hand and champagne flutes were brought to both of them; Charles drank his in one swallow, and accepted another. Erik tasted his. Veuve Clicquot, he thought.

“Where are you from, Mr Lehnsherr?” Moira asked. Perhaps she was no longer flustered with all the preparations, or perhaps Charles had spoken with her, but she seemed genuinely pleased to see him now. “Charles said you’re well-travelled, but he didn’t say where you were from originally.”

“Germany,” Erik said. “I was there until the war.”

“You must’ve been young,” she nodded, apparently content with the answer, as others had been. These bright happy people who’d never known a day of deprivation... what was he doing among them, attempting to be one of them? It was one matter to pretend for a day or even a week, but Erik was suddenly struck with the notion that he had engaged himself in a lifetime’s worth of deception. Acting, he remembered. Perhaps Charles had a penchant for actors, whether he knew it or not.

Just as Erik was thinking of the best way to exit gracefully, Charles returned to his side and took his arm. “Erik, this is Steve Rogers, a close friend of mine. I think it would be good for you to know each other.” 

“My unit was in Europe with Charles for a while, though we didn’t meet until afterwards. I couldn’t help but overhear you’re from Germany. I was there during the war. I’m glad you weren’t.” Steve Rogers was blond, blue-eyed, handsome with his easy smile. He was taller than Erik, and even a suit couldn’t conceal the strength of his body. His handshake was firm. In a fair fight, he could probably snap Erik in half without going out of breath.

Fortunately, Erik never fought fair.

Erik could’ve said nothing, but he answered, “I was.” Erik noticed that Moira’s jaw tensed. He clarified, “There for the war.”

“Wasn’t it difficult to get out of Germany?” Steve asked, showing concern.

“I don’t know. They put us in a train.” He regretted it as soon as he had spoken. Moira’s eyes had widened, either in surprise or horror of potential scandal, but Rogers only nodded sympathetically.

“It takes extraordinary courage to survive that evil," Rogers said, as if he knew anything about it. He paused, in what Erik could only imagine was intended to be a respectful silence.

It took, Erik thought, a madman and a torturer. He said nothing.

Rogers went on, "Well... I’m glad to see you here now, finally making an honest man of Charles. We'd all despaired of the old fellow.” And then Rogers toasted them as Charles shook his head, marshaling a smile.

But then Erik's eyes fell to the way that Charles’ hand clapped on Steve’s shoulder, slipping briefly down to his waist. Suddenly Erik wished that Charles’ arm was still on his and that Charles was looking at him, instead of smiling at Rogers as they reminisced about some private joke. 

Erik felt his face burning with embarrassment. He took another sip of the Clicquot. His collar felt tight. He began to withdraw from the crowd. He had almost reached the edge of the room where it was easier to observe when Charles found him again.

“Are you all right?” he asked him, all trace of laughter gone from his face. In fact, Charles looked pale; the corners of his mouth had a downward turn. “I was just telling Steve what an accomplished artist you are. Steve’s an artist, too. I thought, if you were ever bored--”

Steve joined them, talking about some art school in New York, and how eager he was to draw the scenery of Greymalkin before winter began.

Of course he was, Erik thought, but he forced a smile to his face. He shouldn’t like Charles to be ashamed of him, useless in public as well as in private. Charles was obviously displeased with his previous outburst even if he had said nothing. The English were that way. And Charles, despite his American house, kept a stiff upper lip as well as any Englishman. Despite the separate bedrooms, not once had he complained to Erik of what Danvers had so unceremoniously thrust upon him. And now, he was sharing his wealth with Erik, and even his friends.

For the rest of the evening, Erik played the well-mannered new husband, which was not very different from playing the well-mannered companion. The involvement of cake and champagne didn’t change the nature of his responsibilities. He was here to accompany Charles, to look after his interests and to help him present the picture that Charles wanted the world to see. And if he thought Charles’ smile was becoming more strained as the evening wore on, Erik's own smile started to appear more frequently, in compensation.

The last guest left after midnight. Erik thought some of them might stay the night again, but Rogers suddenly took charge and amiably ushered out the last lingerers.

Erik, retrieving his jacket from one of the saloon rooms, spotted Charles and Rogers deep in a whispered conversation in the hallway. Erik halted by the door, but Charles turned and saw him. Rogers bid them both a hasty farewell and showed himself out, the last to leave.

Suddenly it was only Charles and Erik beneath the great crystal chandelier and the grand sweeping staircase that led to the rooms upstairs.

“I suppose it’s too late for chess,” Charles said. He leaned so heavily on his cane that his entire body seemed to be listing.

“I could play if you like,” Erik tried.

Charles shook his head. “Another night, my friend. It’s time for bed for old men like me.” He cast a strangely mournful look up the steps. “Do you remember where your room is?”

Erik’s heart pounded. Surely that was a request, obscurely worded as it was. “No,” he managed at last, wondering suddenly if he had left any towels in the bedroom instead of the bathroom.

Charles was looking at him curiously. “Well, since it’s just us, I’ll walk you, then. It wouldn’t do for you to get lost.”

He closed his eyes and with a visible effort, straightened himself. He seemed surprised as Erik took his elbow but said nothing as Erik took the majority of his weight as they made their way up the stairs.

“Is the pain very bad?” Erik asked. The thick carpet muffled any sounds the cane might’ve made. 

“A stray bullet during the war,” Charles muttered. “More nerve damage than muscle. I’ll be all right after some sleep.” He paused and patted Erik’s hand. “I’m very sorry to disappoint you, but my constitution isn't sound enough to weather these long parties as well as I used to do. You should have as many as you like, regardless. Greymalkin is a large house, practically built for parties. Don’t mind me.”

“I’m not disappointed. You’ve been... very kind,” Erik said quietly. They had reached the bedroom door. He was still thinking of a position that would involve the least amount of work for Charles when Charles placed a brief kiss on his cheek and bid him goodnight just as he always did.

It was their wedding night, Erik thought, and wondered if the reminder would bring Charles back, or merely puzzle him. Charles was always polite. And Erik had his pride. He didn’t think he could bear it if Charles were to decline his company tonight, no matter how kindly worded the demurral. Even worse, what if Charles thought Erik was mocking him? The man was in pain. 

Erik didn’t know what other words he should’ve spoken. He stood there in front of the half-open door and watched as Charles turned and limped down the hallway away from him.

Someone had made up a fire in his room and rearranged the towels on the racks so they hung perfectly straight. Was it really someone's job to make certain his towels were straight? Erik didn’t know the internal workings of a wealthy household very well, and he didn’t want to speculate further. He'd learn for certain soon; he'd investigate just what was involved in running a household like Greymalkin, and if he could accomplish it without distracting from his true mission, he'd take it on to pull his weight. If not... he'd find another way to be useful.

He used the towels, changed, and slipped into the new bed with the new sheets and the new pillows. It took a long time to fall asleep with the bobbin lace tickling his nose. 

When he woke up, it was still dark outside. There was a raven on his windowsill, the moon casting its shadow onto the wall. But it was silent, and soon flew away, the sound of its wings not even a whisper through the thick glass. It couldn’t have been the noise that woke him. 

The house seemed silent, but Erik knew his own instincts too well to attempt to go back to sleep. He got out of bed. Just as his bare feet hit the carpet, he heard it. A light thump-thump sound, like footsteps. 

What if it was Charles? Perhaps he had rested enough.

The thought struck an unexpected chord of panic. Erik grabbed the new nightshirt where he had left it earlier in the evening, hastily put it on then divested himself of his shorts. It was too dark even with the low firelight to put on the corset reserved for night-time wear, so Erik didn’t try, but just as he was about to get back under the covers, he heard the sound again.

It wasn't coming closer; it retreated down the corridor. The steps were too heavy and too even to be Charles.

It could be a thief. With that thought, Erik opened the door silently, summoning the poker to hover close by his side as he went out. It was pitch black, but Erik could navigate by sending the twining glimmer of wiring inside the walls and the lights. Abruptly, he remembered the candlestick beside his bed and regretted not lighting it. Nevertheless, if he couldn’t see, whoever was stumbling around out here couldn’t either.

He was almost at the banisters when the noise grew abruptly louder. The windows in the front hall allowed moonlight to filter through, rendering the staircase in a deep starry gray instead of black.

Erik tensed as there was a sudden quiet; he changed the shape of the poker in his hands, lengthening and sharpening it til it became knife-like at both ends, like a double-headed spear. He breathed slowly, and waited. 

Soon, he heard a flurry of thumps, and a monstrous shadow leapt out from the corner of his vision. Erik turned, heaving his spear, but the shadow batted it away like it was nothing more than an annoying fly, and disappeared into the darkness again.

The darkness that led toward Charles’ bedroom.

Erik retrieved the spear from where it had clattered against a low table, knocking over a vase onto the carpet. The thumping was gone, but the carpets were thick and if the invader moved slowly, there wouldn’t be a sound. 

If it was a ghost, it could’ve simply vanished.

Erik tamped down the thought. Ghosts and monsters did not exist. There was nothing on earth more frightening than men, and he had hunted them in the dark as well. The half-glimpse of a leonine head and the body of a gorilla was nothing more than an inaccurate observation, his own vision dimmed in the gloom.

And Charles was still there, in his bedroom, at the mercy of whoever had come to the mansion and realised they were in danger of being found.

Erik moved as fast and as silently as he could, trying to sense Charles’s watch, hoping he kept it close. Charles had told him it was a dear gift.

He saw a faint sliver of light under Charles’ door. There was no sound of struggle. As far as he could sense, nothing in the room was disturbed, but there was one unfamiliar item: he felt the thin metal frames of a pair of spectacles, warm with wear, and tensed. With a pang, he realised that for all he knew, Charles wore glasses to read in bed.

Charles’ voice surprised him. “Is that you, Erik?”

Who else would it be? “I couldn’t sleep,” he answered. He cast about for an excuse, and looked down on himself in just his nightshirt. Well, he did come to find his husband.

“I'm sorry to hear it, my friend," said Charles. "Do you need anything? I'm afraid I'm in no shape to get up, but I can ring down to the kitchen. Someone's probably still up and about, cleaning up after the party."

He sounded perfectly normal. Erik looked around. As expansive as Greymalkin was, in this particular bend of the hallway, there was nowhere else the shadow could have gone; there was nothing here but the door to Charles' bedroom, firmly shut and-- Erik felt again to verify it-- locked.

"No," Erik said. "I don't need anything." He hardly wanted to tell Charles he was seeing monsters in the middle of the night, alarmed by strange noises in an unfamiliar house. Worse, Charles might think Erik invented the whole thing to have an excuse to come to his room and seduce him to consummate their marriage, like a gold-digger in a seedy pulp novel. "I just couldn't sleep."

"There’s brandy in your room,” Charles said. “On the bookshelf.”

“I--”

“Erik. I’ll see you at breakfast.” 

“When’s breakfast?” Erik pressed his ear against the door, hoping that Charles was picking up his concern. 

There was a brief pause and what sounded like a shuffling of paper. “Nine, in the dining room.” More gently, Charles said, “Erik, everything’s all right. Try to rest. We'll talk in the morning.”

It felt foolish, to linger unwanted at the threshold of Charles’ door after that. Erik thought about mentioning the shadow, but Charles was as short as he had ever been with him. Erik couldn’t help feeling like a child being told to go to bed. And why not? The monster he was hunting was as fanciful as any child’s fantasy.

No wonder Charles didn’t want to sleep with him. 

-

The croissants were still warm when Erik came down. The sideboard was also crammed with scones, piles of toast, eggs, fruit, pancakes and every sort of jam and honey; boxes of cornflakes stood beside a tureen of oatmeal. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and looked at the spread, not sure what he could take.

“Are we expecting company?”

“Not unless you wish it,” Charles lowered his newspaper. “Logan told me that we can take the horses out if you like. Or you can go for a drive.”

“You won’t be accompanying me if I go for a drive?”

“I’ve to check on the grounds,” Charles answered. He sighed, “It’s been a long time.”

Checking the grounds would also afford Erik an opportunity to investigate the creature he pursued last night. Perhaps it had been a large animal that darkness had made to seem unnatural. He hadn't known til just now that Charles kept horses. For all he knew, they had guard dogs as well.

-

Erik had never been near stables in his life. The smell of fresh hay did nothing to dampen the pungency of the animals.

“You’ve never been on a horse before in your life,” said the groundskeeper, who apparently doubled as the groom. “I keep the place standing,” was all Victor Creed had been willing to say. Seeing Erik trying to ride, however, seemed to provide him with endless amusement.

“Raven rode like a champion.” Creed pointed to a large horse, its coat a black so deep it nearly looked blue in the highlights. “That’s hers. Mystique. She was a bit depressed for a while, but she’s a strong one, and bore through, like we all did. Now, sit up; Logan tells me you can open gates and probably move cars for all I know, but you can't control a horse, you have to work with him. Clutching the reins like that will only make him nervous, and Magneto is... sensitive, so be delicate with him.” Delicate was an odd word to come from a man who seemed the opposite in every possible way, from his beaten boots to his too-long, sun-bleached hair.

Charles watched the impromptu riding lesson from astride his own horse, X, which nearly bit Erik’s hand off when he tried to stroke its nose. The horse submitted to Charles’ direction as docile as a kitten, though, circling while Victor grumbled.

Finally Creed adjusted the stirrups and pronounced Erik unlikely to crack open his pretty head. "I've done all I can do with the tack," he said, "the rest is up to him. So if anything does happen, don't come back here threatening to give me a new career braiding hair."

“Don’t worry about him,” Charles said to Erik once they were out of Victor’s view. “We’re going for a walk, not a race, and you already look a natural. I couldn’t sit half as well when I came back to Greymalkin.” Charles’ eyes slid critically down Erik’s form; Erik flushed under his riding jacket and adjusted his legs. Beneath him, his horse jerked and whinnied.

“Relax,” Charles said, then set off on one of the paths. Magneto followed without Erik’s direction.

They were side-by-side for most of the ride as Charles led Erik around the estate, then off the main road into the trails that Charles navigated with difficulty, sometimes pausing at crossroads before leading the horses over more difficult ground, where there was no visible trail at all.

He kept up a light patter introducing Erik to the place, but grew quieter as they went deeper into the woods.

“We played hide and seek all over the grounds... all those games and sports that could accidentally break vases or ruin fabrics," Charles said when he spoke again. "My mother was a great hostess, but the more elegant her summer parties, the wilder Raven and I became. One summer we convinced Logan to build us a treehouse.” Logan didn't look much older than Charles. He must’ve meant the father. 

Erik attempted to decipher the word: treehouse. He suppose it meant a house among the trees, but wasn’t that a cottage or even a lodge? He wondered if it was an Americanism.

“My father had us tear it down after the summer because mother complained it was too near the gazebos where she held her garden parties. The next summer, he took a day off from the labs and led us here. His mother, my grandmother, used to love fairy-stories, and she and my grandfather built a lovely treehouse for my father when he was a boy, just like something from a storybook. And he'd had it restored for us.”

They had reached a clearing in the woods. A giant tree stood in the middle of it, its roots thick and rising out of the earth. Though there was a broken swing, there was no sign of a house. 

“Look up,” Charles smiled.

Nestled in the twining branches, camouflaged among the leaves, was indeed a house. Though small, it had all the parts. The roof had fallen in a little, covered by the leaves, but the wooden walls were still standing. Sunlight glittered off the glass windows. Higher up, Erik could see the subtle ladders nailed to the branches that led to other platforms.

“Raven and I often spent days and even nights out here after the Markos came. We stayed until whatever food Cook packed for us ran out. In fact, even later, because the fruit trees were laden, and Raven could fish, and I had my pocketknife and matches. No one knew except us and Logan. We kept our treasures there. A robin’s egg, cicada shells, an eagle feather. The usual children's stuff. It's probably all still there,” Charles said wistfully. “I remember the most magnificent view of Greymalkin from that rampart over there. The house would look small enough to carry.”

Charles couldn’t climb anymore, Erik realised. Without a word, he dismounted as gracefully as he could and swung himself up the lowest branch, making his way up. It was more difficult than he thought with his riding breeches and boots limiting his movement. His foot slipped once, and Charles shouted his name below.

Erik pressed on until he reached the platform. Rusted iron rings and knots of frayed ropes secured it to the tree limbs. The wood itself seemed solid enough. Nonetheless, Erik eyed the position of a secure branch before getting on. Once he was certain that he was stable, he stood, and let out a gasp at the view.

He stood in the middle of a sea of treetops. Quite close, the blue ribbon of a stream led to the lake. He stood there, letting the wind cool his overheated skin. Beneath the vast empty sky, his feet far away from the ground, it seemed as if he was alone in the world. But he was, wasn’t he? He had been alone ever since his mother died. Perhaps even before then, when he had been taken away from his parents that rainy day when he twisted the gates and caught Schmidt’s attention. Erik had only the hunt.

The wind seemed cold now. His sweat had dried. He heard his name being called again, from below.

Charles was waiting for him, doubtless wondering what Erik was seeing. Erik wished he had brought his sketchbook, or even a camera. Perhaps he could rig a pulley system and use his power, which had been steadily increasing under Charles’ guidance, to bring Charles up here once more. 

As Erik made his way down the platform, his attention was momentarily snagged by the shape of jewelry, a necklace and pendant. His hands were busy climbing, but using his power, he floated it over and tucked it in his pocket before crossing a broad branch to the treehouse. 

Fairy-stories, Charles had said. Erik remembered very few fairy tales from his own childhood. None of them had involved a treehouse. He had grown up in the city-- his cousins and boyhood friends had played games he no longer remembered.

Pushing open the door, he was disappointed to find piles of leaves. Most of the windows were broken. Glass shards and cobwebs glittered here and there. Broken mugs and bowls cluttered small shelves. Chests sat along the walls under the remains of two hammocks. 

Something hissed at him. Erik turned. A black cat with huge yellow eyes glared at him from a box filled with the tattered remains of blankets. Taking a closer look, Erik realised it was nursing kittens.

He retreated and nearly stumbled over a small wooden box. Unlike the other boxes in the room, this one had a lock, auburn with rust, the corrosion irritating Erik's sense for metal. He opened the box to find books wrapped in wax paper. He ignored them to search for the presence of iron beneath.

He lifted out a round biscuit tin, the lid sealed to the body where the brightly colored lettering had faded. Erik felt a brief pang of nostalgia seeing it. Beneath a floorboard in a house in Düsseldorf, he, too, had kept his own treasure box. He no longer remembered what had been in it, only that it had all been precious to him.

A small knapsack occupied the wooden box as well. He put the biscuit tin inside and made his way down the treehouse, which had a far easier route than the way up, a weather-worn but still sturdy ladder.

Charles had dismounted and tied his monster of a horse to another tree along with Magneto. 

“Erik!” he said, smiling, his shoulders relaxing. The most curious mixture of expressions came over his face when Erik handed him the biscuit tin.

He put his hands to the lid and twisted, but nothing happened. “I can’t open it. Would you?” He looked at Erik, who brushed his finger along the seam of the lid and felt the metal part.

Inside the box, he saw the broken robin’s egg, the eagle feather, a bell, and kept in plastic, a photo of a woman and a man, dancing barefoot on the grass. He could see the second pair of dancers, smaller, beside them. The girl’s face was turned away.

“The boy’s me,” said Charles, softly. “This is Raven. She was my parents’ ward. That's Mother, and Father. It was mother’s birthday. She'd been sick in bed for a few weeks before this. Father was gone on a business trip, but he came back early and surprised her with a birthday party on midsummer night. Do you know, I think it’s the only party in Greymalkin she didn’t arrange herself. I was eleven. That was the same summer we got our treehouse. I'd forgotten that this photo existed.” He bit his lip and looked up at Erik. A tear slipped free down his face. He wiped it hastily away. “Thank you, my friend.”

“There were other things in the treehouse and the box,” Erik told him, uneasy with the emotion Charles was showing. “I can fetch it all down for you if you like, except for the cats.” 

Charles frowned. “Cats?”

Erik told him about the family nesting there.

“We found an injured black cat once that Raven insisted on nursing back to health. It scratched and bit like anything, but she found a way to tame the creature somehow. I suppose you saw one of its descendants, still guarding the treehouse. Think of it... after we're gone, there might yet be more cats guarding a childhood long since past.” Charles closed the tin and put it back into the knapsack, and slung it over one shoulder. “Thank you, Erik, but you found the treasure. The cats can have the rest. What’s gone is gone. And I don't like to think of you risking injury for a few old trinkets."

Erik had climbed across balconies and rickety European rooftops with a sniper rifle strapped to his back. He made no mention of it now, startled by the concern in Charles’ face, the soft sound of dismay in Charles' throat.

“What?”

Wordlessly, Charles took Erik’s hand, and there was indeed a long scratch across the back. It seemed shallow, but Charles drew out a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and insisted on binding it. Erik itched to pull away, but Charles’ hand, shorter but broader than Erik’s, was gentle and deft, and he'd soon tucked the handkerchief firmly in place.

“I’ve been asked to step in on a project at the university for the next month.” Charles' thumb circled the skin, sending an odd, pleasant frisson down Erik’s body. "I'm afraid it's going to involve quite a bit of travel up and down the East Coast, and I expect they'll keep me quite busy."

“When are you leaving?” Erik thought about being the lone occupant inside Greymalkin, surrounded by strangers who waited on him and watched him. It was more disturbing than he expected.

Charles let go of his hand and went to untie the horses. With his back turned to Erik, he said, “Tomorrow morning. I thought to take you with me, but you've already been called upon to do so much traveling and meet so many new people. I’ll be back in a few weeks. Greymalkin’s your home. Invite anyone you like. I’m told that no one turns down an invitation to come. Logan and Victor will always be here, and Cook and the maids during the day.”

“I understand,” said Erik, numbly.

The ride back was quiet. One hand cradling the tin, Charles seemed to have sunk deep into thought, and Erik could come up with nothing to say.

They had tea, from which Charles excused himself. After an afternoon occupied by reading, Erik went down to dinner only to find that Charles was meeting someone and would not be joining him.

Erik took his place alone in the huge dining room, with course after course placed in front of him. It was a feast. At a restaurant, he wouldn’t have worried what would happen to the plates he didn’t finish, knowing the kitchen staff would take it. But with only him eating, he couldn’t help the vague worry that he was being wasteful and insulting to those who had prepared the dishes. 

He had finished the fish when Charles appeared. He seemed so much more tired now than he'd been during their ride; dark rings hung beneath his eyes and his footsteps were heavy.

“We’ll play chess this evening in the smaller library. I don’t think I’ve shown it to you yet,” Charles said. “It’s next to my study.” He glanced at the untouched porkloin occupying the plate in front of Erik. “You don’t have to eat anything you don’t like. Come when you're ready," and he left, crutching himself along with his cane.

The dessert was chocolate mousse. Erik took a spoonful to be polite before excusing himself, not sure who he would be offending. 

He went upstairs to find Charles, who looked up with a smile despite the weary shadows on his face. The smaller library was filled with books on the walls, but the game had already been laid out, with two comfortable armchairs on opposite sides.

A portrait of a beautiful blond woman in a blue dress decorated the wall. Beside her stood Charles, but younger and happier than Erik had ever seen him. The painter had managed to catch an air of mischief around the eyes and the mouth that Erik knew only as a ghost in the expressions Charles worn around him.

“Before I went off to war,” Charles said, catching Erik staring at it, and handed him a glass of wine.

Halfway into the game, Erik made a rather desperate stand against Charles’ assault, shifted in his chair, and remembered. “I found something else,” Erik drew out the necklace in his pocket.

He floated it over to Charles. The necklace had felt light in Erik’s pocket and he hadn’t examined it, but now he saw it wasn't a necklace and pendant at all. It was a length of ball chain with a single dogtag. When he concentrated, he could feel the contours of Charles' name hammered into it.

Charles’ eyes widened as he took it. “This is mine. Where did you get it?”

Stung by the note of accusation, Erik said, “In the tree, near the platform. I forgot I had slipped it into my pocket.”

Charles became silent afterwards, and he began to play badly. He poured another glass of wine for himself, and another. His pale face grew flushed. For the first time, Erik won, but it seemed a very hollow victory. 

Especially later, when he lay in his empty bed, looking at the gloomy shadow of the raven on the wall of his bedroom and recalling Charles’ smile beneath the trees.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is alone in Greymalkin. The mystery of Charles' past deepens.

“No one ever declined when Raven sent the invitations,” said Victor, when Erik asked where he should post letters.

Charles had left after breakfast. Erik hadn't realized he meant to go so soon, and rushed downstairs.

He thought Charles would give some instruction, or perhaps advice about how he should spend the weeks, but Charles had looked sad and tired and stared at him blankly, as if he couldn’t remember how Erik came to stand at the doorway to Greymalkin with untucked shirt and hands in his pockets.

Charles had reached out; Erik almost thought he would be given his goodnight kiss in the day. His heart lurched as Charles came closer. In the end, Charles had merely patted him on the shoulder and said: “I’ll be off now. Don’t catch a chill.”

Then he'd touched his hat and gone to the car. Erik watched it disappear into the morning mist, with the vague irrational feeling that he would never see Charles again. The hasty and awkward goodbye on the front steps was so unsatisfying that even the breakfast spread tasted bland. He ate as quickly as possible, took a plate, and went upstairs. It didn't matter. He had an aim in life before meeting Charles. Nothing could take that away. 

With letters in hand, Erik circled the building for a while before encountering Logan and Creed at what he assumed was the servant’s entrance. 

“Leave him alone, Creed. I’ll send them off with the rest of the post,” Logan said to Erik, who handed him the letters: not invitations, but messages to his contacts, written in cipher. Writing them had distracted him from thinking about Charles and reminded him of his true purpose.

“I suppose you want the place done up for a dinner party,” Creed said. “When Raven was here, she'd arrange everything herself. Of course, she was raised here, and always knew what was needed. She had us call her Raven instead of Mrs. Xavier, you know, because she said the title always made her think of Mrs. Sharon Xavier. She was so charming, everyone here looked on her as a friend as well as a mistress.”

“Did she arrange your manners as well?” Erik asked. "They seem to have fallen out of order." He didn’t like the sly way Victor had been appraising him ever since they met, making his opinion of Erik’s worth patently obvious.

“Raven earned our respect. She had a gift for organization, especially with people,” said Creed loftily. “And she had a smile for everyone, even during the most trying times. It shocked everyone that Charles remarried. She can never be replaced.”

“Enough,” Logan growled. “Erik's not here to replace Raven. She’s gone. Charles moved on.”

Victor gave Erik a very unimpressed look up and down, but turned away to gather empty sacks he had used to deliver the day's fresh flowers.

“I don’t think he can,” Erik heard Creed mutter to Logan. He knew, somehow, he was meant to hear the words. “Not exactly the type, is he? Too skinny, and you remember what Ms. Haller and Ms. Voght were like. That foreigner who was after him, he sent her packing after a while, didn’t he, and she was a princess of sorts? And then, you know, Rogers.”

Erik was going to demand Creed return and explain himself when a car came up the drive, and Rogers himself emerged, calling out a friendly greeting.

“Charles left already?” Rogers frowned, glancing and nodding at Logan and Creed.

“Was he supposed to go later?” Erik asked moodily. It seemed Charles was actively avoiding him now. No wonder Charles had made no mention of resuming their sessions to train his powers since they came to Greymalkin.

“I think I just got the dates confused.” Rogers grinned. Backlit in the late morning light, he looked golden and strong, like an Apollo come to life. “Anyway, I suppose he doesn’t need me anymore now that he’s got you.”

Erik’s narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

“Charles and I usually have lunch in the city on Saturdays if he’s in residence.” Rogers paused. “Would you care to have lunch with me, since he’s left you here alone?”

Erik crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“I understand if you're busy with your new home, of course,” Rogers said, “but don’t hesitate to call if you need any help, or just want a friendly ear. I know that Charles wouldn’t want you to feel neglected.”

“I’m not _neglected,_ ” Erik said, more sharply than he intended.

Rogers, amazingly, blushed beneath his tan. “I know Charles can get... distracted, sometimes. That’s just the way he is. But I suppose you know that already.”

“Yes.”

Rogers seemed to be waiting for something. Erik, bewildered, stood his ground.

“Well, I better get going. I was going to go sketching this afternoon. It’s a beautiful day for it.” Rogers looked almost shy. “I hope Charles showed you all the scenic places. The countryside's beautiful around here.”

“Yes,” Erik repeated stolidly. He might be more sorry that he didn't know how to behave in this situation, but if Rogers found him rude, so much the better, as far as Erik was concerned.

"Well... goodbye then," Rogers said, and left at last. With the interloper gone, Erik made his way back to the house, and began to explore.

None of the papers in Charles’ desk surprised him. Erik knew about all of the accounts and businesses already. He found the safes, hidden behind the usual paintings and faux-wood cabinets, but they contained mostly money, jewellery, a few medals, and the occasional notebook scribbled with what were obviously passcodes. There were keys to safe deposit boxes, but Erik had his own copies of those. Not that he ever needed keys to get past any lock. 

Only the medals interested him. Charles had a Purple Heart, and a Bronze Star with a V, for valor. Erik kept an eye out for accompanying paperwork, but he could find no documents explaining exactly what Charles had done during the war to earn those commendations.

The biscuit tin from the treehouse rested atop Charles’ desk. Beside it was a stack of letters and postcards, all of them from R. Xavier of Greymalkin and addressed to Lt. Charles F. Xavier, at various military camps.

Erik didn’t open them, but one letter, the edge not yet yellowed, lay atop the desk. Charles must have been reading it in the evening. After his chess game with Erik, he had retired here to think of his lost wife.

Erik laid the letter flat.

> _My dearest Charles,_
> 
> _Your favorite student called again yesterday, the soon-to-be-Dr. McCoy. I invited him to stay to dinner. Will I ever learn? As usual, he stumbled and stammered until he started to talk about his work, and then I felt stupid because I didn't understand it very well, and we both just stared at our plates for the rest of the meal. And plates are terrible conversationalists._
> 
> _I know that you want me to like him, and I did have warm feelings for him when I first met him. But things always seem to turn awkward between us. And if you knew what he's been working on, you'd be disappointed in him. I told him so. He disagreed, but he wouldn't discuss it, just trailed off into mumbles._
> 
> _It's hard to explain in a letter... it's an injection that's meant to remedy cosmetic problems. He still believes he needs such a thing. I'm not sure I do, not anymore. If you have the chance to write him, ask him about his formula, he'll know what you mean. And for God's sake tell him to abandon any stupid ideas of trying it out himself! I wish you were here, you'd know what to say to him._
> 
> _I wish you were here for other reasons. For every reason. It's lonely here. But don't worry, I'm taking good care of Greymalkin for you, and I hope when you come back, it will feel like home._
> 
> _Now do your part, take care of yourself, and come back safe, and soon._
> 
> _No matter what, I promise I'll always love you._
> 
> _Raven_

The handwriting was large and neat, a strong hand, the tall sloping R especially elegant. Erik wondered how long Charles had stared at that letter last night. Everything else in the room was tidily arranged, if a little cluttered, but this letter wasn’t in its envelope.

Charles must miss her very much. They had grown up together, kept a treehouse together as children before they kept Greymalkin. He thought of the happy children in the photograph, the young couple in the portrait, and then Charles as he had met him: kind, yes, but with the shadow of sadness lingering behind his warmth.

What was the use? He should be grateful that Charles married him at all. Still, it rankled him. Erik had possessed very few things of his own throughout his life. It hurt that his husband-- because Charles was that, in the eyes of God and men-- that Charles, for all his kindness, would share with him his house, his wealth, his friends, but not the happiness of marriage. That had only been for Raven.

Erik knew people had found him appealing in the past, for one reason or another. Perhaps Charles had as well, when they first met. Erik also knew, however, that he had spent his lot of happiness early in life. He regretted he had none left to offer Charles, who likely, seeing his youth, expected more than Erik could give.

He did not go into Charles’ bedroom. There would be other days. Charles would be absent for a long time.

Instead, after collecting stationery from the library, he drew out the list of names he had concealed in the double-compartment of his old traveling case. It still had luggage tags from the French Riviera. It wasn’t very long since he had been traveling as a secretary without means of his own, but it seemed a world away.

He took out the list of names and compared it against the new notes he had made in London. Some of his prey were in the States, probably in New York. He found a map in the library and pinned it up on the wall. He would have to prevent people from entering the room; sealing the lock would probably be too conspicuous. He wondered if he could put up a Do Not Disturb sign, as in a hotel. Or would that perhaps make the staff gossip? It would probably be easier if he took down the map after every time he used it.

Erik made a few inquiries by telephone, and updated his notes and his map as the replies came in. He spent a few days at the task, drawing connections and mapping, getting back into the rhythm of the hunt. Not knowing what else to do, he ate in the dining room alone.

Early Friday afternoon, Angel, Alex, and Armando arrived in one car. They seemed distraught that Erik was confused to see them. 

"We always used to come over on Fridays," Angel explained. "And especially tonight, you'll need a hand! When the family's in residence, all the muckity-mucks around here expect an open house, the first Friday of the month."

Erik doubted they were coming for kiddush. He considered trying to explain Shabbat to Charles' friends, and dismissed the idea just as quickly. They might dismiss him or humor him, but either way, they wouldn't care.

“Don't worry about a thing. We’ll help,” said Alex, and made his way to the telephone.

Meanwhile, Angel showed him the wedding announcement in New York Times: Dr. Charles F. Xavier, PhD, of Westchester, and Mr. Erik Lehnsherr. There was a photograph, too. The article spent more words on Greymalkin and its previous hostess Raven Xavier, deceased, mourned by all, than on Erik, whom the writer noted was twenty-five years old, possessed a vivacious smile, spoke fluent French, and wore a dove-gray suit, before going on to talk at length about those who attended.

He looked serious in the photo, his head inclined slightly toward Charles, who was smiling, his arm lightly linked through Erik's. They set each other off well, Erik supposed. Though Charles was shorter and slighter, he looked poised and confident, and his face scarcely showed his years; in newsprint, he looked of an age with Erik, who always thought he looked rather older than he really was, himself. Next to Charles, Erik looked tall and broad-shouldered and very slim, with no trace of the gawky social unease he'd tried so hard, in his time with Danvers, to train out of himself; as if Charles' self-assurance provided enough grace for both of them.

Before Erik realised what was happening, cars were arriving, spilling out entire orchestras, teams of caterers, servers. Sean and Moira arrived too, though not Rogers, thankfully. 

Everyone else seemed to know what to do and where to go and what was happening. Erik, torn between the instinct to safeguard Greymalkin as his house and the understanding that it would be rude to turn everyone away, decided that discretion was the better part of valor and retired to his room.

He felt a strong urge to involve himself in Greymalkin, to learn enough of the estate and household to truly be its master. It galled him to draw back in uncertainty like this, while others took over. But he smothered his pique and pushed aside the impulse to take part.

Erik wanted to contribute to the household somehow, it was true, but he wasn't here to entertain. Let other people bother about parties and gossip, if they were so keen to keep up the house's traditions. He'd appear if he must, but he had his own work to do.

He unrolled his map and contemplated how to get to his next target. He should deal with this before Charles returned, in the unlikely event that Charles insisted on traveling with him, which could only complicate matters. Alone, his comings and goings unnoticed by most, he could easily call an unsuspecting cab or rent a car under a false name. 

And he needed to interrogate this one, which would require privacy and time. He'd need at least four days to locate the man and secure a safe place to take him. Well... Erik's lips peeled back in a grin. Safe for Erik, anyway.

Soon, Sean interrupted with a shout that echoed around the house to say that guests were arriving.

Erik put away the map, looked at himself in the mirror, brushed back his hair and added a sport jacket over his shirt, and went downstairs to carry out his obligations.

People he had met once took him enthusiastically by the hand, telling him how refreshing it was to see such spontaneity at Greymalkin, and how Charles must appreciate that the great house was entertaining again. They seemed unsurprised that Charles himself was absent.

Many of the guests, Erik had never met. They did not even pretend to have been among the hordes at the wedding; they clearly came to gawk at Greymalkin and pass judgement on Erik-- his looks, his conversation, his manners, even the state of his hand, which a surprising number remarked on. The scratch was closed and healing, but Erik wished he had thought to put a plaster over it.

“Pity he left you alone so soon,” said the county judge's secretary’s cousin, or someone equally trivial. His manner was as vexing as he was obscure. “He’s a busy man, but you’ll bear up, I expect.”

Erik gave him one of the vivacious smiles _The Times_ found so notable before he turned around and found an old lady swathed in lace taking his arm, full of enthusiasm about how wonderful Erik was, keeping up the traditions of Graymalkin and the previous Mrs. Xaviers.

“Poor Sharon was always a great hostess, and so was Raven in her time, so I suppose Charles expected it,” she said. Her fingers dug down on his arm as Erik tried to pull away. He could feel her nails even through his jacket and imagined red pointed marks on his skin. “What else anyone would do around this old place, I wouldn’t know.” She was smiling, her thin lips red against her pale face. “It must be such a relief for Charles to have people about. I’m sure you want your amusements, too, Erik. You are a young man. Days in Westchester can be so very dreary; scenic, but dreary. It’ll be good have something to liven things up a bit. Some games, perhaps, my dear. I’m sure you’re marvelous at them.”

Erik opened his mouth to reply but the obscure cousin answered. “Polo, don't you think? I noticed as I was coming in that the grounds are being kept up. Charles must still have the horses. The Markos always did like their races, and Raven liked games, the more competitive the better. She was always so athletic. I long to see Mystique out on the field again. Of course you'll play, Erik. What a waste it would be to let all the fields go, when your people have done so much with the grounds.”

The questions, given with a disturbing pretension of intimacy, grated on Erik’s nerves. As the party waned on, other questions were the same; the answers tended not to require Erik’s input at all. He was suddenly Danvers' secretary again, sipping his drink politely, cataloguing all the metallic elements in and on the bodies around him because he was bored, insulted, and unable to express frustration except in his imagination.

Worse, as the host, this time he could not slip away unnoticed. With every nod to his name, he became aware that he was the conversation piece.

Summer garden parties, polo games, tennis matches, holiday celebrations--- they talked and reminisced and compared him to Raven, the paragon of a gracious hostess. Raven, who knew all the best ways to entertain, the best musicians, the best games, the best gossip. Always a smile and a kind word for everyone. Always poised, always beautiful.

It was as if Charles had merely engaged Erik’s services to maintain everything that had been Raven’s. Raven, who was still the spouse of Charles Xavier and the undisputed mistress of Greymalkin.

Every moment became more unbearable with each reminder. Charles had married Erik-- but no; Erik had been foolish to ever think it might become a real marriage. Charles Xavier had _employed_ him. The ketubah was just an exotic formality for Charles, an additional trinket offered as a bonus to his new hire.

“Have you seen the ghost yet?”

Erik paused from taking another tiny sandwich from a tray. The music had come to a lull. People were clapping before the next number. “What?”

A man, slightly balding, waved at his wife as she stood to dance, and turned back to Erik. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief and said, “Greymalkin is an old house. I was here during the Last Party.” Erik could hear the capitalization. “I got up to go to-- nevermind what,” he laughed, looking slightly nervous. “But I was startled by a noise. I was in the middle of the corridor. I turned back to my room, but then I smelled it. I know that smell. I teach chemistry.” His left eyelid twitched. “I swear, that was sulfur. Brimstone. And Raven Xavier disappeared the next day.”

Erik considered. “I thought she died in an accident.”

The man lowered his voice. Erik had to strain to hear him. “There’s always been a rumor that a devil took her.”

“A devil!” Erik repeated, incredulous.

“My father said when he used to stay here when Marko still ran the place, he heard voices. And my brother, Carmen, he was in the same unit as Charles, he stayed here a few times too-- he said the same thing. People thought it was just because of the war, but my brother’s always been fine in his own house, or in mine.” He shook his head. “It’s always been said that someone in the Xavier family must’ve made a deal with the devil. Of course, it wasn't Raven, but she paid the price. The sacrifice is always the most loved and the dearest, isn’t it? That’s what my wife says, anyway. Marko was involved in dark dealings, everyone's always said. And you know Charles, there've been rumors about him too. A prodigy from a young age. Never forgets anything, always seems to know things... sometimes things he shouldn't. But after Raven, we thought his wits were gone. For a while, we thought the devil took him, as well.”

“He seems fine to me,” Erik said, nonplussed.

“You’re very young. You didn’t know him before,” the man said. “I remember. You can dismiss the devil all you like, but it’s not just the war. He’s not what he was. I’m not just talking about the injury or age. It used to be that when Charles Xavier entered a room, everyone _felt it_. He’s... less, somehow. Diminished. Don’t ask me to describe it. My wife's the poet.” He lifted the glass he was holding. “This place never changes. It’s so beautiful it’s like a mirage. But just remember. All beauty’s paid for, one way or another.”

The old woman in lace arrived as the balding man concluded. She turned her attention to Erik again, smiling, though she had been talking about him in the meantime; Erik had heard his name more than once. “Are you talking about that ghost again, Dr. Pryde? Don’t spread rumors. Greymalkin’s an old house. All old houses have stories. Pay him no mind, young man. Raven never did. What did she used to say when anyone mentioned devils?” She laughed. “Something about the devil you know and the devil you don’t... and demons in the bedrooms.”

The balding man twitched, muttered something, and turned away. 

It could be merely envy speaking. The wealthy had their own absurdities, called eccentricities because they could be free from the consequences. What did Erik care of the bedroom games played out under the roof of Xavier’s Graymalkin? He had no part in it, then or now.

He looked around at the guests, these men and women... perhaps they were expecting Erik to offer the same indulgences. He was certainly providing for their stomachs, Erik thought, bitter, as he speared a piece of cheese. Taking advantage of the brief confusion as the dancers returned to their seats around him, Erik slipped into the corridor.

He could hear what they said, even if they smiled at him as he walked past them. Even if he was no mindreader, he had ears. He could hear the whispers, the undertones of vague suspicion. Erik knew all his life that people married among themselves. His people did. During his travels, he'd seen that people like these did the same. He was an oddity, an intruder. 

What was Erik, after all? A boy Charles picked up on holiday. A no-name German boy, at that, and Charles with his war history--

Erik stopped listening. They were no one, he reminded himself. He didn’t know most of those people. Charles didn’t introduce him to them, so they didn't matter.

He forced himself to unclench his fists. They were only ignorant. They could be good people. They were his neighbors. He hoped they would never come again to his house.

The door opened again unexpectedly, Sean coming through, pausing as he caught sight of Erik. “Great party," he smiled. "Seems like it's winding down, but it sounded to me like everybody had a good time. We should have one every month, like before. When’s Charles going to be back? It’ll cheer him up to see the place more lively, wouldn’t it? How about it, Erik?”

Erik didn’t feel lively. He muttered something about it being up to Charles.

"C'mon, some of us are moving the festivities down this way," Sean said, gesturing, and Erik accompanied him to the great room. Most of Charles' closer friends were gathered near the fireplace.

“Are you feeling all right?” Rogers’ unexpected presence by his side and solicitous tone were unwelcome. A lock of golden hair had fallen across his brow. It made him look as if he’d just battled pirates or come off a round-the-world-flight. “You seem a bit off.”

Creed’s words echoed back to Erik. Unwillingly, he recalled that even Charles’ friends didn’t think Charles would like his type. Raven was one of their class, raised among them, and now there was this slip of a thing, skinny and gawkish with an unpalatable accent, playing lord of the manor.

He didn't want to care. He _didn't_ care. He was through tolerating these distractions, from Charles' friends, from the guests-- most of all, from himself.

"I'm afraid I don't feel well," Erik told Rogers and Sean. "Can you and the others see the rest of the guests out?" 

Whatever they thought of Erik, Charles' friends were obviously invested in Charles' and Greymalkin's reputation. With a chorus of "Absolutely" and "Rest, don't worry about a thing" and "We'll take care of it," they quickly assembled and returned to the ballroom to discharge the last hosting duties, which consisted mostly of handshakes and stiff smiles. Erik had run out of both.

He made for his room. Three flights of stairs away, separated by the thick walls and lush carpets, the music and conversation faded. He was alone in the silence in a large opulent house. His house. His home, even, if Erik wanted.

Erik wanted. He had always wanted so much, even if he could only describe it as the promise of something more. Something that he knew would build and become greater even than the rapture that the use of his abilities sometimes brought him. He couldn’t help wanting, no matter how many times hope remained only that, a flicker of light in the long dark, a small voice that might’ve just been an echo in the vast emptiness.

A hint of rose and lavender seemed to have lingered in his room, but it was gone as soon as he crossed the threshold. He fixed his attention onto the pins of the map in the drawer, and got back to work.

-=-=

Ten days later, Erik received and decoded a letter that gave him the assumed name of a Nazi scientist. His stomach grew leaden as he gazed at it with recognition.

He located the name and an address where he'd seen it before: in one of the older files in Charles’ study. Dr. Pryde been correct. There had been dark dealings in Greymalkin, though the devil that Marko had served had existed in flesh and blood, in the memories of all the men, women, and children he had condemned to death. Erik, too, remembered him.

Now that he knew this file's import, he scrutinized it more closely. From his perusal of the files he was familiar now with Marko's handwriting, and some of the shorthand he employed, but if there was anything in this file to distinguish it, Erik couldn't see it. Marko handwrote everything, the information dashed out idiosyncratically. There seemed to be no system, no identifying codes or classifications to connect one file to another. 

Erik had already investigated Marko's papers over the past ten days, and found only what appeared to be notes on ordinary business associates and Marko's dry cleaner. He'd been convinced at first that the dry cleaner's file had to be significant, but deciphering the shorthand, he'd only discovered an account of their service and the various stains they had failed to completely remove from Marko's clothes and rugs and curtains. If that was a further code, Erik couldn't crack it.

Some of these files contained information from Operation Paperclip, and Erik had no way to tell which ones.

It was possible Charles knew. It would be best if Charles knew. The information would be invaluable.

He hoped Charles didn't know.

There was a telephone in the study. He called to confirm the association between the former scientist and his last known address, then put away the files and made preparations to leave.

On the map, distance between Westchester and Connecticut was mere hours. For the first time since Danvers, Erik had means and information beyond what the Mossad could imagine. Politics had impeded justice, but Erik would correct the oversight. 

Schmidt had likened his abilities to those of a god, but Erik would always remember that he had been merely a boy at the mercy of the man who had killed his mother. He was a lab rat among many. They had made him forget his name, almost forget his language, but Erik knew his mutation was a weapon. He had no pretensions of divinity; he was an instrument of vengeance, for his mother, for his people.

The staff didn’t come in on the weekend. Erik resolved to leave Friday night. Packing, he opened his wardrobe and found a black turtleneck still wrapped in tissue paper. The knit was softer and warmer than anything he had ever worn before, the material sliding pleasantly across his skin. He wore it beneath the battered leather jacket which had accompanied him on other hunts.

He left a note on Charles’ desk. Next to Raven’s note, his handwriting looked small and severe, a schoolboy’s hand, each stroke biting into the paper. At the end, he signed it as large as he could. Then, embarrassed, he burned the first note and wrote another one, unsigned. He folded it and wrote “For Charles” as well as the date on the back. He would retrieve it if he came back.

Erik silently tread to a servant's entrance and stretched his sense for metal past the door. He detected no pocket change, no keys, no nails in shoes, no rivets or eyelets on clothing. Clear. He slipped out the door, locking it with his power. He had no need for the keys Charles left with him, and he carried nothing on his person that could identify him, or trace him back to Greymalkin or Charles.

Crossing the threshold, Erik felt his body ease, his strides lengthening, senses sharpening. In the mansion, he was young, uncertain, out of his depth. Out here, passing through shadows, the light at his back and his true purpose ahead of him... here, he knew what to do. He belonged here.

Greymalkin had a stable. It also had a garage, converted from a large barn, away from the house. Charles’ half-brother had collected cars. Another time perhaps, Erik would have liked to uncover them from the dust-sheets and discover and enjoy the precision of their engines, but at the side, there was also a motorcycle. He examined the engine and wondered who kept it in good condition, the gas tank full. The key was locked in the box with the others. He took it.

As he started to push the bike out onto the path, he heard a noise. Erik turned around and saw no one. Dread filled him. Something was pulling him back. He hesitated, but he saw nothing, sensed nothing. There was only the silhouette of the house, dark and foreboding under the moonlight: somewhere he had never been. Once he pushed the bike out onto the path, he got on, turned the key in the ignition, and rode away.

Darkness shrouded the long tree-lined path, but Erik never got lost. The long beam of light in front of him was enough. 

He remembered to close the gates behind him.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for keeping up with this story. We're still writing...
> 
> The despoiling will come in the next couple of chapters.


End file.
